


First Contact

by Ruth_Devero



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Cha-Club Special Award, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an away mission goes wrong, Paris and Chakotay wind up in the middle of a slave culture ... and only one can be the master.  A classic Trek theme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Contact

Throbbing. His head was— He slipped back.

——

Head. Ohmigodfuckshit, his fucking head. Big too big too— He groaned. Hurting. Darkness beckoned, but—

Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris, chief flyboy of the U. S. S. _Voyager_ and big fucking idiot, struggled to rouse himself. Head. Could he lift it? It seemed welded to the dusty place beneath his cheek. He groaned again, realizing he’d gotten no reponse the first time, realizing he’d been expecting one.

None this time, either.

He thought about opening his eyes. Dust. He smelled dust and old garbage and fresh smoke. Heard distant voices and occasional wooden creaking. Feet were cold. Mouth seemed packed with tongue.

He lay there for a while, eyes closed. Resting up for the major effort of—

Paris opened his eyes. Light scalded them.

He lay with closed eyes for the count of three. Open. Whimper and close and force them open again, groaning and then squinting the world into focus through a curtain of lashes.

Dust. Well, that explained the general dusty feeling. Planet of dust. Captain Proton on the Planet of Dust.

He heaved himself up on shaky arms before he could notice and stop himself. Ohmi—

The dusty world grayed at the edges. He swayed for a moment, fiercely focused; and then absolutely everything he’d ever eaten in his entire life spilled out of his stomach onto the beige ground. Throwing up just did his head no good at all, but his stomach seemed grateful.

He did it again and then retched a few times—mostly a reaction to the vile taste in his mouth—and then scrabbled backward away from the vomit, so it wouldn’t happen again.

The wall was rough against his back, but it steadied him while he struggled to steady the world.

Dust and wall and— He tried to look around without moving his overly large head. Walls on both sides of him: end of an alley. Alley punctuated by small heaps of ripening trash. All softened by the beige dust.

And no Chakotay.

Because— Had Chakotay been here? Paris thought so. They’d been together—at least he seemed to remember it that way. They’d been—

Feet were bare. That was why they were cold. He didn’t have shoes. Paris stared at his feet, trying to solve the puzzle of why they looked pinched and bluish, why he’d come out without his shoes, why the Captain had let him come down to the planet without shoes, because, really, she usually cared about things like that. But he’d _had_ shoes, and Chakotay had had shoes, and—

Well, shit: _think_ , Paris, _think_.

Okay.

Chakotay. He and Chakotay hadn’t slept in the alley; that wasn’t like them; they’d have found someplace less dusty. Someplace with beds, someplace with other travelers, other traders eager to share a meal and a friendly—

The memory was like a solid blow to his achy gut. Last night. Lousy little inn with the pretty serving girl and the chatty guys who’d sprung for the meal and for the wine. Wine that Paris hadn’t liked much, but potent stuff: after a couple of mouthfuls his head was spinning, and then—

 _You fucking idiot, that stuff was drugged_. And Chakotay hadn’t drunk it at all, since he didn’t generally drink. Was that why he wasn’t here now? Paris remembered the guarded looks the other guests had given Chakotay during their meal, the way they’d sized him up, and his stomach clenched in sudden terror. What the hell had they done to the Commander?

He lurched to his feet and swayed for a moment against the rough wall. Oh, fuck, whatever the hell that had been in the wine, it was devastating. He spent some precious moments struggling with dry heaves. He pressed his forehead against the coolish plaster to steady himself.

Comm badge was— Paris fumbled frantically over his clothes. Pockets empty. No comm badge, no redstones, no trader’s fetish— Fuck. Not even any lint. And no shoes; and, especially, no Chakotay.

 _Fuck, Paris, do you have ANYthing?_ Well— He reached under his knee-length tunic to explore his lightly padded trousers at the inner thigh. Two—no, five tiny redstones. Right next to the family jewels. Chakotay had snorted as he watched Paris work redstones through the coarse cloth and into the padding; “All the valuables in one place,” Paris told him, and Chakotay had laughed ….

Okay, so they wouldn’t starve. Now, find the inn, find the thieves, and find Chakotay.

And find some shoes. Paris had been in situations before where shoes were currency; he’d wondered then what made them so damned important. By the time he reached the end of the alley, he knew. You needed the damn things because there was so much just waiting to stub your toe, bruise your arch, cut your heel. He came out into a noisy little courtyard just as a woman sloshed filthy water across his path. Thanks.

Damn city with its damn heat-reflecting white buildings. The sun ricocheted off all that white and straight through his brain. But there was the inn and there was the serving girl. Paris stumbled toward her like an undecided photon torpedo. She seemed surprised to see the state he was in—or maybe just surprised to see him, period.

“ _Where the fuck is he?_ ” Paris said in a voice so harsh he barely recognized it.

“Who?” She held her broom as if it were a weapon.

“Chakotay! Where the fuck is he?”

But she was backing away into the inn, alarm and consternation mingled in her face, and the broom at ready to defend herself.

“What’s going on?” It was the inn keeper, pushing past her. He saw Paris. “Oh,” he said.

“Where is he?” Paris said.

“Who—the slave?”

“Chakotay! We were together!”

“The slave,” the inn keeper said, as if that were the most reasonable description of Commander Chakotay he could think of. “Probably in the slave market. Your friends probably took him there.”

“My fr—” Paris stared at him. Something must have happened to the universal translator embedded in him; maybe the stuff that had been put into the wine. “Those weren’t my friends. They robbed me.”

“They bought your meal, and they took you outside when you got sick,” the inn keeper said. “I thought they were your friends.” His tone implied that that was the story he was sticking with.

 _You piece of_ — “What happened to Chakotay?”

“What always happens to slaves. You know we don’t allow slaves in this part of the country. Someone probably took him back across the river.”

Panic blossomed in Paris’s stomach. “He isn’t a slave.”

The inn keeper blinked. “Of course he is! He’s probably in the slave market right now, waiting for a new master. One that will know better than to bring him across the river where he doesn’t belong.”

New master— Paris stared for a minute at the inn keeper. “Where’s the damn slave market?”

The inn keeper gestured. “Across the river.” He cast Paris a look of disgust as he turned on his heel and went back into the inn.

River. Paris stared around him, trying to orient himself. There was a dull roar from somewhere: continuous and monotonous. Probably the river. Before he followed the sound, he drank deep from the well in the middle of the courtyard—hoping desperately that it wasn’t downstream from latrines—and let the trickle of water run over his head.

His head felt clearer, but he shivered as he stumbled toward the sound of rushing water. It was chilly; autumn was coming on fast.

The town—city, to the Verkau—was a labyrinth of dusty little streets bounded by monotonous white buildings. Men leaned against the walls, staring at everyone who passed; women lounged at the doorsteps, staring at everyone who passed. Paris avoided looking them in the eyes, unsure of how an answering stare would be interpreted.

He walked, he walked. He wasn’t even sure he was headed for the river; how the hell did anybody ever get where they were going? Finally there was a break in the buildings; and his street emptied onto a pathway beside a gorge. The river.

A handful of elaborate bridges spanned the gorge, linking this city of white, dusty buildings with a mirroring city of white, dusty buildings. Paris joined the Verkau streaming across the nearest, passing blue-clad guards slouching at this end—armed with bows, no challenge to someone with a phaser, except he didn’t _know_ anybody with a phaser.

As Paris started across, someone jerked at his arm, and a huge hand with a tattooed palm was thrust in front of him. He stared for a minute at the guard who had stopped him.

“One stone to cross the bridge,” the guard said.

Paris blinked at him. _What?_

“Cheapest bridge in the area,” the guard went on. “Sturdiest, too. The House of Bentau likes to give customers good value. One stone.”

A couple baskets half full of redstones sat at the guards’ feet. Up and down the river, other guards watched similar baskets at other bridges. Damn. Paris fumbled under his tunic.

The guards laughed. “First time in the city?” one called out.

Paris felt his face grow hot as he fumbled for the redstones—any stone at all. He ripped frantically at the coarse material, finally yanking one free.

His guard stepped back and raised his hands. “ _I_ wouldn’t touch it!” he said in mock alarm.

Paris glared and dropped the stone into the basket. He stalked away from the raucous laughter with as much dignity as he could muster, hurrying to lose himself in the crowd. Good going, Paris.

The wide bridge was of wood, painted the blue of the guards’ uniforms, with geometric designs in green covering almost every inch. The colors of a Verkau House. The damned Houses—the sixteen major ones—controlled everything, made money from everything. The river the bridge spanned was—mygod. Paris stopped and grabbed the railing with both hands. Hundred-meter drop, down to an expanse of raging water roaring across rocks. No swimming _that_.

Something jostled him. Paris whirled, ready to fend off an attacker.

“Sorry,” his jostler said. “Slave thinks he can still get away from me.” He gave Paris a grin of conspiratorial amusement, a grin that said, “ _you_ know how they are.”

The slave in question had stopped struggling, at least temporarily. He plodded ahead in the grasp of the grinning Verkau, stony-faced, eyes on the dusty bridge ahead of him, hands bound behind him. It wasn’t Chakotay.

Stomach suddenly flopping like a landed fish, Paris followed them to the other side.

The slave catcher grinned at the guards eyeing the crowd at this end. “Good catch!” one of them called out as he dragged the slave off the bridge.

“One more, and we can put a new wing on the house!” the Verkau called back happily. The guards laughed as he and his catch disappeared into the crowd.

Oh, fuck— _Chakotay_ …. It suddenly hit Paris just what had happened to Chakotay. Somehow the Verkau had decided he was a slave; somewhere they were selling him; someone was actually selling him and thinking about whether to use the money for a good drunk or for a good lay or maybe for the local equivalent of a bunch of carrots and a toy to give a child. My god— _Chakotay_.

Paris pushed through the crowd in a sudden surge of panic. Find him find Chakotay fucking find fucking Chakotay— It was all up to him: no comm badge no way to signal _Voyager_ no emergency beam out even if they were in trouble because the underlying geology of the fucking planet fucked up the scanners in a major way and _Voyager_ couldn’t find them. Not even the local equivalent of Interstellar Travelers’ Aid, because the Verkau hadn’t even invented their equivalent of gunpowder yet, let alone space travel; they didn’t even know they were being visited by space travelers stopping by to trade for dilithium crystals on their way to another part of the galaxy. They didn’t know they were selling the commander of a starship like a basket of not-so-fresh fish.

Finally at last finally finally, Paris caught sight of the slave catcher. The slave seemed to have given up struggling, and the slave catcher was hustling him along. Must be trying to get home for dinner.

Paris followed at a casual distance, eyeing the crowd around him. Verkau carrying baskets or packs followed other Verkau at a respectful distance, eyes firmly on the ground. Slaves following their masters. Chakotay …. The masters—male and female—wore knee-length tunics over padded trousers, in the bright colors of the various Houses to which they were allied. The slaves dressed mostly in browns. They kept their heads down, and they followed their masters like sheep following shepherds, stopping obediently when the master stopped, silently adding purchases to their loads, never looking up. Chakotay—

Paris snorted. Chakotay as a slave was just— Chakotay would incite the biggest revolt this planet had ever seen—Prime Directive be damned. Paris would love to see it. Prime Directive be double damned.

The slave market was huge. An enormous square stretched before him. Here a crowd studied the features a slave trader pointed out on the body of a naked Verkau man; there, a Verkau woman pursed her lips in deep thought on the relative merits of two naked Verkau children. Naked Verkau huddled together against the autumn chill, as clothed Verkau studied them and dickered, under the gaze of leather-armored guards with whips. Paris tasted bile. Fucking Prime Directive be triple damned.

He surveyed the square, trying to look casual. And as if he had all the redstones on the planet: that look would earn obsequiousness from the damned slave traders, that look would get him a better price than desperation would. At least the red and black of his tunic would impress them, though the color combination belonged to none of the major Houses; Tuvok had made sure of that. Paris looked at his chilled and dusty feet. Probably a Verkau who had all the redstones on the planet also had shoes. Well, fuck it. If he had to buy Chakotay out of slavery, he’d need all the stones he had; starship commanders didn’t come cheap. Paris would have to be the eccentric Verkau with all the redstones on the planet—an eccentric who disdained mere shoes.

Paris scrabbled casually for the remaining four stones, clenching them tightly in his fist, which he shoved into his pocket with as casual an air as he could manage. Okay. He started off on his tour of the slave market.

Halfway into it, he spotted Chakotay, glaring at everyone around him. Paris let out a relieved breath. At least the commander hadn’t been sold yet.

He stopped for a minute to reconnoiter. Chakotay stood, arms bound behind him, completely naked; good thing they’d done the full-body disguise. Paris studied him: uncut and a respectable size; smooth brown skin grazed in a few places; full lower lip puffy with bruise; right cheek bloody. Built-up epicanthic folds over the eyes intact; and if Chakotay turned, Paris knew he’d see the rich brown freckles the Verkau bore, spreading from his hairline down the nape of his stiff neck and across his shoulder blades; lighter down his spine; and nestled in a dark triangle at the crack of his ass. Paris’s smile crinkled his own altered eyes. Even naked and bruised, Chakotay radiated hostility and defiance. And power. Four redstones wouldn’t _begin_ to buy this guy.

Except maybe in this market. As Paris watched, potential buyers approached, took one look into Chakotay’s stony black eyes, and retreated, glaring hostility at the seller and not even glancing at the scrawny old naked Verkau huddled against Chakotay. A couple guards stood nearby, eyeing Chakotay and talking to each other—apparently deciding something. The slave merchant looked frustrated and desperate.

Paris made his move. Stroll forward, smile pleasantly at the suddenly hopeful merchant, stop and study the prospective purchase. Old guy first: stringy muscles, apparently on his last legs—

Paris felt ice settle in his belly as he realized what it was that made the Verkau think Chakotay was a slave.

He had to remind himself to look at the Commander, remind his face not to show the shock as he surveyed the merchandise from head to foot. Chakotay was giving him the warning glare a really caring commander usually gave the lieutenant who’d be spending the next ten years in the brig if he screwed up in the next ten minutes.

“Very strong,” the merchant said. “New this morning. Look how strong he is. And probably breed you many more.”

Paris struggled to control his breath, before it came out in a laugh. Chakotay was giving him the glare an especially caring commander always gave the lieutenant who was going to be cleaning Jeffries Tubes on all his off-bridge hours for the next thirty years, if he so much as smiled in the next thirty seconds.

“I don’t know,” Paris said. “I’m not really in the market.”

“A good bargain,” the merchant said coaxingly. “Won’t be on the market long. Only twenty stones.”

“Twenty?” Paris asked coolly. “Twenty for someone with _that_ attitude?” Chakotay’s glare burned brighter than Verka’s twin suns; he probably thought Paris was joking around.

Paris lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, fanning four fingers on the hand that the slave merchant couldn’t see, and watched Chakotay’s glare fade to alarm as he understood the message.

“Fifteen,” the merchant said quickly.

“Two,” Paris said. _Just hold on, Commander_.

“No. Impossible. That’s an impossible price for this strong slave who will breed you many more and make you rich. Ten. Ten, I might consider.”

“Three.”

“Do you want to ruin me? Six.”

This guy was desperate, and the sudden smile in Chakotay’s eyes said he knew it, too.

“Four,” said Paris.

“This must never get around,” the merchant said. “If it got around that I gave this slave away, I’d be ruined. Five. Five would allow me to at least keep some dignity. For five, my wife would still call me husband.”

“Four,” Paris said again.

“Four is an outrage. Four is an insult. Four would make my mother turn away from me in disgust. For four, my father would tear my name from the book of our family. Five. I can only take five.”

Paris sighed. “Like I said,” he said, “not really in the market.” He turned.

“Ruin,” the merchant said. “You were sent here to ruin me, weren’t you? The House of Auln still hasn’t forgiven me for that small matter of the third son’s virtue, not that he had any to begin with, the little plump-bottomed slut. Out to ruin me.” He heaved an enormous sigh. “But a man must pay for his pleasures, and those red lips and bold ways were worth even my economic ruin. So, four. Tell the House of Auln I have lost my mind and may lose my business. Tell them they have won. Four it is.”

And Paris found he could breathe again. Chakotay gave him the glare a tender commander often gave the lieutenant who’d sidestepped a messy death by millimeters.

The slave merchant carefully placed the stones in a worn pouch that hung around his neck and unfastened the old man, who’d been tied to Chakotay. The old Verkau staggered; the merchant gently guided him to a seat on the ground, speaking to him in a low, mock-scolding voice.

Paris reached to untie Chakotay’s hands.

“I wouldn’t,” the merchant said quickly. “He might— He was very— He’s been disobedient.”

“I think it’ll be all right,” Paris said, struggling with the knots. Damn. Chakotay’s wrists were bruised and abraded.

Paris started when a leather strap was thrust at him. “I was going to beat him,” the merchant said. “Remind him of obedience before the guard did.”

“I don’t think so,” Paris said.

The merchant tried to put the strap into his hand. “Beat him now. A few strokes from a caring master is better than being broken by the guard.” He indicated the men, now silent and staring at Paris and Chakotay. The ice settled again in Paris’s belly.

“I don’t need to.” Paris held Chakotay’s startled dark eyes with his own. “I think he knows better than to look directly into a master’s face.” _My god, Chakotay, just pay attention_. “I think he knows a slave just shuts up and looks at the ground.” _Good god, Chakotay_ — “I think he knows he needs to blend in—”

Chakotay’s eyes filled with loathing, but he turned his gaze to Paris’s feet. His mouth was set in a line that didn’t bode well for the future.

Paris stood for a minute, watching Chakotay’s slow burn. Then he lifted his eyes to the watching guards. They still looked suspicious, but they were relaxing now, eyes drifting to other parts of the market, looking for other trouble spots.

“We need to get out of here,” Paris said to Chakotay.

He started off, glancing behind to see what Chakotay was doing, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. My god, the first officer of _Voyager_ was being paraded naked across the square, and nobody was even noticing.

“Don’t enjoy this,” Chakotay hissed in a low voice.

“I’m not.” _Much_. Commander, stark naked with his head lowered in humility, walking a respectful distance behind a lieutenant? What wasn’t to enjoy?

Paris turned, feeding himself with a glance of an outwardly humble Chakotay, and stopped, watching the scraggly old Verkau and the slave merchant, sitting together and sharing a snack. “What about the old guy?”

Chakotay stopped; his mouth went lopsided. “Don’t worry about him; I think he’s been on the market for years. Apparently this is some sort of retirement for him. He and that slave merchant bicker like an old married couple.” Chakotay looked around. “My god, this place is vile.”

“Well, we didn’t mean to come here.”

“Yeah, but we’re here now.” Chakotay’s eyes burned dark fire. “Prime Directive or not, this society doesn’t deserve—” He bit it off. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He started off for the river, striding along with the arrogant power he exuded walking through _Voyager_ ’s corridors.

 _Shit_. “Chakotay!” Paris glanced around as he went after the commander. He managed to step in front of him. “Commander! Just fucking _stop!_ ”

Chakotay stopped and glared at him. Just beyond him, the damned guards were interested again.

“You have got to fucking remember who the fuck you are here!” Paris hissed. “Commander,” he added belatedly.

Chakotay glowered.

“These bastards just _sold_ you to me!” Paris tried to keep his voice low. “They don’t give a fuck that you command the greatest starship in the Delta Quadrant; to them you’re just a slave. You have to _act_ like one—at least until we get the fuck out of here!” One guard was striding towards them, the other watching warily.

Chakotay’s eyes promised mayhem and revenge on an unprecedented scale. But he lowered his gaze to Paris’s bare feet. Good.

“Quick,” Paris said, watching the approaching guards. He started across the square just like nothing was wrong, aiming away from the guard. He could feel the guard behind him and ran a dozen possible scenarios through his brain; but the expected shout didn’t reach his ears.

Paris glanced back casually—the master checking on the new slave, who was following obediently, glaring at the ground. The guard had given up. He felt his knees wobble in relief.

A narrow street led off the square, a quiet place with few pedestrians. A cul-de-sac; Paris took them to the end of it.

Chakotay’s eyes burned cold fury. “Just what the hell happened back there, Lieutenant?” he said.

For some reason, Paris found himself moving between Chakotay and the street, as if hiding him from anybody who might be watching. Stupid, since Chakotay was so enraged he didn’t seem to care that he was naked in public.

“They were going to whip you,” Paris said. “I couldn’t have stopped them.”

Chakotay’s mouth tightened, but that seemed to have gotten his attention. “We weren’t supposed to end up on this side of the river,” he said. “How the hell did it happen?” Barked out as if he thought it was Paris’s fault.

“They think you’re a slave. That side of the river catches slaves and sells them on this side.”

“And why the hell would they think _I’m_ a slave?”

Paris swallowed. Now he was in for it. “The tattoo,” he said. “All the slaves have tattoos on their faces. Must be some sort of House mark. The masters don’t have them.”

That stopped him. There was a long, silent minute while Chakotay stared at him, color draining from his face. His hand went up absently as if to cover the mark that honored his father, that meant so much to him.

Then Chakotay’s mouth quirked, and his eyes went blank. “My ancestors must be laughing their heads off,” he said.

Huh?

“I didn’t even notice,” Chakotay went on. “Some observer.”

“Well, everything was kind of chaotic,” said Paris. “Besides, every time you look in the mirror, you see a guy with a tattoo. After a while, guys with tattoos probably just don’t make that much of an impression.”

Chakotay’s grudging half-smile told Paris he knew bullshit when he heard it, but he appreciated the effort.

“Tuvok’s going to have to do something about reconnaisance,” Paris went on. “We should have known.”

“I agree.” Chakotay suddenly looked tired. “Cultural indicators said, ‘slavery’, and we just said, ‘No, thank you.’ We should have pursued it instead of blithely assuming we could sidestep the issue by avoiding the slavers. Caught by our own arrogance.”

“So now what?”

Chakotay looked at him.

“We can’t just cross back,” Paris said. “They’ll just jump us again and take you right back. Apparently slave catching is a good business.”

“Can’t communicate with _Voyager_ ; _Voyager_ can’t get a lock on us or our position.” Chakotay had ceased to be the naked commodity, had donned his role as Commander, considering the situation.

“When we don’t check in tonight, they’ll send somebody after us,” Paris said.

“Yes, but not until tomorrow, and a shuttle will have to land where ours did—there isn’t any place closer with enough cover to hide it. Another day to get to the city, and they’ll have to search street by street, since the scanners won’t work. And even then they won’t think to search on this side of the river. At least not for a while.” He surveyed the area over Paris’s shoulder. His mouth went wry, as if he’d tasted something sour. “We may be here for days.”

“Great.” Paris felt his stomach turn over. Days of dodging guards and trying to make sure nothing really bad happened to either of them. And they needed stuff: food, a place to stay. He glanced at Chakotay. And clothes for the shivering Commander. “We don’t have any money.”

“And we need it. These people have commodified everything.” Chakotay’s voice held no irony. “We’ll need to figure out how to get some.”

“You’ll have to—” Paris’s voice suddenly failed him.

Chakotay’s gaze went straight to Paris’s. “Act like a slave,” he finished for him. The black eyes were neutral, though the jaw tightened. “What was it you said? Keep my head down? Walk behind you? Know my place?” Every word was as crisp as a phaser bolt.

Paris flushed. “I didn’t make the rules, Commander!”

“No, but you’re certainly benefiting from them. As usual.”

Paris felt hot words rising to his lips, squelched them. Damn fucking stiff-necked Chakotay. As big a pain as a Starfleet commander as he’d been as a Maquis captain.

Chakotay let him stew a minute. Then, “Tom,” he said, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m just not feeling very happy at the prospect of staring at your ugly feet for the next few days.” The quirk of his mouth was an apology.

Paris accepted it. “We have to get you some clothes. I’ll refrain from mentioning what part of _your_ body I don’t relish seeing for the next few days.”

To Paris’s surprise, the Commander flicked him a grin. “Then I suggest that the first thing you do is give me your pants.”

His— Great. Pantless, Paris would spend the next few days naked-legged and looking ludicrous.

Chakotay was giving him the Commander look—the one that promised that he could make sure that for the next thirty-five years, any time Paris wasn’t in the brig, he could be scrubbing Jeffries Tubes with a toothbrush. “Or your tunic. I’m not picky. _Lieutenant_.”

Well— Paris started to pull the tunic over his head.

“Hooeeoo! Hooeeoo!”

Paris jumped, turned, stepped back to shield Chakotay, who hissed, “Shit!” into his ear.

A plumpish woman was scurrying toward them, beckoning. “I need a trunk carried out. I’ll give ten redstones for use of your slave.”

Uh— (“ _Damn_ it!” muttered Chakotay.) “He doesn’t—uh—he doesn’t have any clothes. On,” Paris said. (“ _Lieutenant_ ,” Chakotay said, warningly.)

The woman looked puzzled and a little impatient. “I don’t need him to wait table. I just need something carried.”

Uh— “But he’s— _naked_ ,” said Paris. _Think fast, Tom_. “I wouldn’t want to offend you with—with—uh—with his naked—uh—his nakedness.” He heard an impatient sigh from behind him. _Oh yeah? See if you’d do any better_.

Now she really looked impatient. “He’s just a slave. Who hasn’t seen a naked slave? They’re just animals. Come. I’ll give you twelve redstones. But no more. The trunk isn’t that big.”

Uh— “ _I_ could do it for you.” He flashed her his best knock-’em-dead-with-charm grin. “Let _me_ do it!” And maybe Chakotay could hide himself—

Now the woman looked offended. “Of _course_ not! That’s what _slaves_ are for! Comecomecome!” And she reached around Paris and grabbed Chakotay by the arm.

She was strong, and she was fast, and she had the advantage of surprise. Chakotay stumbled past him, giving him a glare that said, _Do something!_

Yeah, but do _what?_ Paris trotted after them.

This was just— “Uhhhh,” Paris said. My god, this was—

He felt hilarity bubble up inside him as he followed the woman and his naked Commander to a doorway a few steps away. My god, this was one scenario they’d never even thought of cooking up at Starfleet Academy; he hoped he’d make it back to the Alpha Quadrant and get it added to the syllabus.

One of what passed for a horse on Verkau stood hitched to a carriage outside the door. A glance at the wizened little driver explained why they needed someone to carry the trunk.

“Chair, Lashlee!” the woman called out, and a little girl, eyes respectfully averted, brought out a chair. “Sitsit!” The woman shooed Paris to the chair.

So he had a front row seat for the whole humiliating scene. Chakotay’s hands were clasped at his crotch; his head was down at a respectful angle; but he was giving Paris a glare out of the corner of his eye that could have run _Voyager_ at warp nine for the next fifty years. Paris gave him a sick and helpless shrug. The glare upped about ten more years.

“Comecome!” said the woman, and as Chakotay followed her into the house, he cast Paris a look that could have withered the Great Tree of B’n’a’ba, which had actually weathered a nuclear explosion.

Shitshitshitohfuck. But it was—well— _funny_. Paris’s mouth warred with his instinct for self-preservation, which kept reminding him that he shouldn’t grin, because Chakotay might see him out a window. His mouth won.

Lashlee set up a little three-legged table and brought out a glass and a pitcher of something tinged a cloudy blue. It was cool, not at all sweet, and very refreshing. Paris downed a glass of it and settled back to enjoy another one. Shit. This was just too ridiculous. Harry was going to _love_ hearing about _this_.

Time passed. Paris planned. Twelve redstones. First thing they’d get was clothes for Chakotay— — _oh, god, Chakotay standing there stark naked, trying to hide behind his hands, while that woman_ — —and shoes for himself. And they’d need a place to stay—

He heard merry chatter inside the house, coming closer. Okay, now, try to look humble enough to mollify the Commander.

Chakotay came through the door first, carrying the trunk easily on one shoulder. He was watching his feet, his face a stony mask. Behind him the woman chattered with another, who was wrapped in furry robes.

And right on Chakotay’s heels— Paris’s fingers tightened on the glass, and all impulse to laugh evaporated.

Right on Chakotay’s heels was a very small boy with a child-sized riding crop, slapping Chakotay’s legs with it and chanting, “Go! Go! Go! Go!”

“That’s it,” the woman in the furs said fondly, “make him go faster.”

The woman who’d hired them smiled over at Paris. _Aren’t they just adorable at that age_ , her smile said.

Everything went gray for a minute.

Then, Chakotay was strapping the trunk onto the back of the carriage, and the two women were embracing, and the child was being lifted into the carriage, and he and the woman in furs were being driven off; and Paris stood and poured a glass of the drink for Chakotay, his hand steadier than his stomach.

“Now, here’s your redstones,” the woman said. As he stowed them in his pocket she cast an appraising—and not unappreciative—glance at Chakotay. “I’ve been thinking of breeding Lashlee pretty soon, if your—”

“I don’t think so,” Paris said, not looking at her. He handed the glass to Chakotay and watched him drink, so he wouldn’t have to look at the damned woman.

“Thank you,” he said, handing her the emptied glass.

To his astonishment, she looked at it in disgust and then straightened her back and smashed it against the wall of the house. “Think I could use it after a _slave_ —” she said; she glared at him and went inside.

Because _Chakotay_ had drunk from it?

He stood for a minute, shaking and disoriented with sudden rage. Then, “ _Tom_ ,” Chakotay said quietly; and Paris’s feet turned him around and walked him away from the damned house.

Walked him right down the street, down another street, down another. No idea where they were going; just getting awayawayaway.

“ _That_ was instructive.” Chakotay’s voice was dry.

Instructive— Paris stopped, turned. Chakotay looked at him. They stood that way while Paris fumbled for thoughts.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

“You’re a Starfleet officer,” said Chakotay. “You can do it.”

“But, Chakotay, that—that _child_ ….”

Chakotay looked at him for a moment, then he straightened his spine, became the Commander again. “Lieutenant, you _have_ to do it. These people have—” His mouth twisted. “These people aren’t going to listen to me; _you’ll_ have to take care of everything. For once in your life, you have to take responsibility for something.”

 _You piece of_ — Paris bit back the words.

But Chakotay saw the fury. He stepped forward, got right into Paris’s face. “ _You_ have to take responsibility. I have to be able to count on you. No matter what happens. Whether you like it or not; whether _I_ like it or not. Can I do that? _Lieutenant?_ ”

It was a minute before Paris could control what would come out of his mouth. “ _Yes, sir_.”

They glared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. _Stiff-necked, uptight, hard-assed_ — And he knew just which buttons to push when it came to Tom Paris. Then Paris saw Chakotay relax a little.

“Tom,” Chakotay said, “I can’t even express how humiliating was to have to go into that house naked, have that child herding me, hear those women laughing about it.” His mouth tightened. “That woman smashing the glass I’d drunk from …. Your anger was—” Chakotay smiled. “—heartening.” Paris took a shaky breath. _Shit_ —just which buttons …. “I hate having to depend on _anybody_. But—but I know I can count on you to get us through this. Can I?”

Fuck fuck fuck. _Just_ what buttons to push. “Yes, commander,” Paris said, though in his heart he knew he was going to screw this up somehow in his time-honored way, just completely fuck it up, get them both killed or worse. Shit.

And there was that wry look coming into Chakotay’s eyes, that dry quirk to his lips. “And now that we have money, we need food, we need shelter, we need clothes. I suggest the clothes first. I’m _freezing_. And I’m sick of feeling like a Dendrelian pleasure boy advertising his wares.”

Paris blinked. What the hell did _Chakotay_ know about Dendrelian— He just killed that thought right there.

The suns were setting, and the long shadows were chilly. The next street over, Paris spotted a clothing stall.

Twelve redstones. Hmmm—

Trousers and tunic and shoes for Chakotay—good, thick ones, because it was getting nippier by the minute. The stall owner was helpful and loquacious and informative. Slave clothing? Right here, sir! The boots were easy; there was only one color and one style. Paris’s heart sank as he looked at the dull browns and grays of the clothing. Chakotay wearing this, just another generic slave—

Of _course_ , there were other colors, sir! Chaneet the Clothier had everything a Master could need! But the rich red tunic that caught Paris’s eye cost eight redstones.

And his own boots—

The Master should have only the best! That must be why they cost three times a slave’s boots. Chaneet the Clothier was aghast when Paris asked about a pair like Chakotay’s. Masters never wore the boots of a slave! No, not even as a joke! Such a thing was unheard of!

“Buy the good ones,” Chakotay murmured, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Chaneet the Clothier politely rearranged his wares, ostentatiously not listening. Apparently little unheard conversations between master and slave went on all the time.

“But I don’t want you to have to wear those—” Paris started.

Chakotay flicked a smile at him. “I appreciate that,” he said. “But, it’ll make it easier for us to blend in. We’re in Rome, Tom. Dress like a Roman.”

Damn it. He bought the damned boots, and two pairs of the socks fit for a master, and a tunic and trousers in a brown that wouldn’t look half bad on Chakotay; and once it was all totalled up, they had exactly two redstones left.

They found an alley and donned their clothes.

“You always have to have your own way,” Chakotay commented as he examined the soft, thick socks before putting them on.

“You’re welcome,” Paris said.

He could see Chakotay’s grin in the fading light as he fastened up his boots.

Food took the rest of their redstones: little rounds of something like corn bread, and a couple handfuls of a small autumn fruit they’d both grown fond of in the last couple days: “And this cost half what you paid for me,” Chakotay said. “I’m beginning to feel seriously underpriced.”

Shelter—well, they sheltered themselves in a really nice alley, where there wasn’t much in the way of garbage, and the wind didn’t blow too hard. Paris froze when Chakotay lay right up against him, though, really, it was the only way they’d stay warm.

“How do you feel about rats?” Chakotay whispered genially into Paris’s ear.

Paris sat up in a hurry. “Where?”

But Chakotay was grinning. “I just wondered. A man needs to know how his companion’s likely to react.”

“Oh, I react just swell,” said Paris. “I scream and run all over the place.”

Chakotay’s chuckle warmed him until he fell asleep.

——

Ohmigod, sleeping on pavement was— Oh, god, he felt about fifty years older than when they started this mission. And this was his second night in a row bedded down in an alley. Paris heard the sound of water trickling and opened an eye. Chakotay, pissing against a wall.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Chakotay said over his shoulder.

“Morning, Commander.” Paris groaned himself to his feet and shuffled over to the wall to empty his bladder. Oh, god, his back ….

Sleeping in an alley didn’t appear to agree with Chakotay, either. Hair rumpled, face creased, eyes puffy with sleep, bruises gone an ugly color, back obviously protesting every move; and those dust-covered brown clothes— Paris had definitely seen the Commander look better.

As Paris refastened his trousers—shit, he wanted a shower, a real _shower_ , with hot water and soap and shampoo and—Chakotay started the moves of the Klingon-Vulcan-Earth variation of tai chi they’d all learned at the Academy. Good way to loosen up. Paris joined him.

Loosened wasn’t fed, Paris’s stomach kept whimpering. Well, it would have to wait until they earned some redstones.

It waited most of that morning, because earning enough for breakfast turned out to be a long process. His attempts to find a quick job for himself were met with amused bemusement by the Verkau: apparently a slave owner wasn’t actually expected to work, himself, which was actually a part of this culture he could probably learn to live with, though, “Don’t get used to that, Lieutenant,” Chakotay murmured behind him.

Finally he found the hiring market, where lounging masters scrounged odd jobs for their slaves. Here, though, they ran into a humiliation Paris hadn’t actually anticipated, though, in hindsight, he should have.

“What House?” an approaching client asked.

“House of Chakotay,” Paris said. _Voyager_ ’s senior staff had discussed the answer to this anticipated question for almost an hour, and decided that, since each pair of traders would need to identify with some House, using the name of the senior officer in the pair would sound plausible enough to pass, but obscure enough not to raise suspicion.

“Ah,” said the man. “A House unknown to me, though undoubtedly a strong House.”

Paris smiled and inclined his head modestly. “We come from far away. The southern continent.” There was, in fact, no fucking southern continent on Verka, but he’d noticed a long time ago that for unexplainable reasons most intelligent beings in the universe prided themselves on a non-existent knowledge of geography.

This one was no different. “A lovely place,” he said. “I have visited it often.”

 _Of course you have_. “How may my House be of service to you?”

The client smiled happily. “I am breeding a lovely pair of—”

 _Huh?_ “I’m sorry,” Paris said hastily. “He’s not for breeding.”

“Pity. So much of our slave stock is inbred; a stud from a distant place could charge quite a fee.”

“Such a pity,” Paris agreed. (Behind him, Chakotay snorted.)

And another Verkau, five minutes later:

“I’m breeding a _very_ strong and beautiful—”

And, three minutes after that:

“They’re triplets, and I would love to breed them all to the same—”

And, six minutes later, the final touch:

“Five minutes, and you could be on your way—”

“ _Five minutes?_ ” Chakotay said in a strangled voice when the would-be client scurried away.

 _Finally got to you, huh, Commander?_ “Obviously thinking of himself,” Paris said, and was rewarded by Chakotay’s chuckle.

“ _Stud_ service?” Chakotay said. “These people—” He sounded disgusted.

Paris thought of Lashlee, being bred to some other degraded lump of a slave as if she were an animal, and felt sick. But, Chakotay at stud—Harry would howl when he heard about it.

“You could have had triplets,” Paris said.

“I’ll just have to live with that.” Chakotay’s voice was rich with amusement. Then, “This won’t appear in our final report, Lieutenant.”

“Of course not, Commander.” _Stud_.

When the next man bustled up, Paris almost greeted him with, “I’m not interested in breeding this slave,” but,

“Work for a week,” the man said briskly. “Carrying. Not heavy loads, not far.” He walked around Chakotay, eyeing him critically. “Pardon me,” the man said to Paris; and he lifted Chakotay’s tunic to examine him.

Above the bunched tunic, Paris’s sickened gaze met Chakotay’s. My god, to be prodded like a side of suspect beef. The Commander’s mouth tightened. Then his face went stony as he dropped his gaze to the ground.

“Good muscle tone,” the Verkau said to Paris, dropping the tunic and running his hands appraisingly down Chakotay’s arms.

He was going to pay for that—dearly.

He did. “For thirty a day, I had better get full bargain out of him,” the Verkau snapped at the end of their dickering. “You’re lucky that Vaneet the Importer needs a worker in a hurry.”

“And half in advance,” Paris said.

The Verkau glared, and then laughed. “The House of Chakotay is unknown to me,” he said. “But with bargainers like you, it is a House that will live in legend.” He handed over the fifteen stones almost cheerfully.

The job actually was as Vaneet had described: Chakotay loaded baskets off carts for the rest of that day, with a couple male slaves. Paris watched. It was monotonous and, watching the deadened expressions of the slaves, Paris could see why the other Verkau thought of them as animals: they had retreated so far into themselves that they looked almost incapable of thought.

At noon, Paris learned something else. First, he learned how to feed a slave. Vaneet sat with the food in front of him, his slaves just behind him; and as he ate, he passed them their own meal. They ate only what he gave them, when he handed it to them, but even without looking he seemed to know when they wanted another piece of meat, another chunk of bread.

Chakotay heaved a disgusted sigh and sat just behind Paris, who shared out the food he’d bought on the way to the shop. It was, Paris decided, a ridiculous way to feed somebody: he was so worried that Chakotay would go hungry that, “Slow down,” Chakotay hissed; “You’re loading me up worse than Neelix trying to finish off that leftover leeola root casserole!”

And then he learned something else. Finished, Vaneet stood, tapped one slave on the shoulder, and led the way to the alcove where he apparently did the books. The other slave lay down and appeared to fall asleep.

After a minute or two, the sounds from the alcove made it very clear that Vaneet was enjoying the dubious pleasures of his slave’s body.

“Don’t get any ideas, Lieutenant,” Chakotay murmured in Paris’s ear.

“Commander!” Paris squawked, turning a shocked look to him.

A smile flickered at the corner of the lush mouth.

“All these people seem to think about is sex,” Chakotay said as the sounds began to build.

“And money,” Paris added.

“Like Ferengis,” they said together. Chakotay’s laugh sounded good.

A few minutes later, the noises reached a crescendo and then stopped, and Vaneet soon strolled out of the alcove, completely unruffled. The sleeping slave sat up and stretched. When the other slave emerged, the two grinned happily at each other; the one Vaneet had used rubbed his ass briskly, cheer radiating from every pore. He showed his friend two fingers; apparently a very good time had been had by all.

“Good god,” Paris breathed. He could hear Chakotay choking behind him.

The afternoon stretched on and on. It was pretty damned boring watching Chakotay and the other two trudge back and forth, back and forth. Maybe he could find something to do, get a job from somebody who didn’t know he theoretically had a slave to do all the work, earn enough that they could both relax for a few days—

The shout and the clatter of a metal cup hitting the ground brought him to his feet; when he saw Vaneet glaring at Chakotay, Paris was moving before his brain even told his feet to go.

They were beside a pottery jar that held water. Chakotay was wet, the ground was splashed, and a cup rocked at his feet. He was glaring at the ground, his fists clenched; his jaw was working hard.

“Your slave should know when it is proper to drink and when he should be following his orders,” Vaneet growled.

“Where we’re from, we pretty much drink whenever we feel the need.” Paris picked up the cup, handed it to Chakotay. “He knows to drink as much water as he needs, as often as he needs it.”

Vaneet’s eyes narrowed as he watched Chakotay take his drink. “Your slave acts as if he thinks far too well of himself. He doesn’t walk much like a slave.”

 _What the hell’s he supposed to do, shuffle and say, “Yes, massa”?_ “Chakotay acts just the way he should.” Paris stepped very close to Vaneet and said quietly, “And if you do that again, I’ll hand you your head.”

The idiom may not have translated well, but Vaneet seemed to get the gist of it. “You’re right,” he said. “It is for the master to beat his slave. But see that you do it.”

Then he shoved Chakotay back to work, and Paris realized that his own hands were shaking. Fucking planet, fucking Verkau, fucking slave culture, fucking— “Observe, so you can blend in,” the Academy had drilled into both of them; but first contact usually didn’t involve trying to stay invisible, learn the culture, _and_ protect your commanding officer from bullies with whips.

The most painful part of the rest of that day was watching Chakotay watch the two slaves, slowly learning from them how to move.

The suns were just setting on the short autumn day when Paris and Chakotay set out in search of shelter. A room where nobody watched to make sure Chakotay acted like a slave, a room with a bed, a real bed, a real fucking bed ….

At an inn that didn’t actually look half bad, when they found it. Seven redstones a night bought them a bed and a meal. When he saw the room, Paris blinked. A bed. One bed—one very narrow bed. One.

“Chakotay needs a bed,” he said.

“Slave’s bed,” the innkeeper said, pointing to the rug beside the bed.

Oh, for— Paris could feel his blood pressure rising; he was just not in the mood for this. “He needs a mattress.”

The innkeeper looked puzzled. “You have a mattress, so when you fuck your slave, you are comfortable. No slave needs a mattress just to sleep on.”

Deep breath, Paris. Deeeeep breath.

Paris stepped very close to the innkeeper, looked down at him, and said very calmly and precisely, “When I fuck my slave, we use _his_ bed; and _I want another mattress_.”

The innkeeper bustled outside in a hurry to shout down the stairs for another mattress.

“’When I _fuck_ my _slave’?_ ” Chakotay murmured.

“Please don’t start, Commander.” Deep breaths, Paris. Deeeeeeeep breaths.

Chakotay strolled to the window, where the candle light bathed his face; and Paris could see his grin reflected in the dark glass.

Supper was communal: Paris sat with the others on low stools around a low table, sharing bread and fruit and platters of vegetables and some sort of meat. Good: plenty for Chakotay, who was a vegetarian. No silverware, though, so Paris had to keep wiping his fingers on his napkin, to keep the juices from the meat off the food he passed back.

There were baths next door, and the minute Paris realized what they were in for, he wished he could just drown himself and get the misery over. First you undressed, then you washed, then you soaked: the procedure wasn’t that alien. Except that slaves were involved.

“Don’t get used to this, Lieutenant,” a naked Chakotay murmured as he stripped Paris.

“I won’t, sir,” Paris said. He had a sinking feeling he knew what was going to happen next.

He was right. Chakotay got to soap him up.

With his bare hands.

Where everyone else getting soaped was watching.

My god. Paris was going to be hearing about this for the next sixty or so years.

“Just close your eyes and think of Starfleet, Lieutenant,” Chakotay murmured into his ear.

Which was funny, except—oh, god—closing his eyes wasn’t a good idea, since it left him free to focus on the slide of Chakotay’s soapy hands on his back, his stomach, his thighs, his—

“That’s probably going to get clean enough without the soap, Commander,” he said briskly when Chakotay’s hands wandered just south of Paris’s stomach.

“Just being thorough,” Chakotay muttered.

 _I’ll just bet_. Paris frowned down at Chakotay’s sly grin. _Damn you, Chakotay; quit making this worse_.

Chakotay seemed in good humor while he finished with Paris’s legs. He was very thorough in soaping Paris’s ass, massaging, stroking, circling—

“I think that’s enough soap, Commander,” Paris gasped finally. _Damn_ it.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Meekly.

Those strong hands went up to shampoo Paris’s hair. It felt good. Very good. And then, unbidden, Paris’s mind reminded him that this was a naked body behind him, radiating heat, occasionally bumping him, smooth skin glistening with water and flecked with soap suds, and—

 _What?_ His eyes snapped open. What the hell was he _thinking?_ This wasn’t some hot and willing flirt. This was upright, uptight Chakotay. His commanding officer. Paris took a deep breath. _Just get a grip, Paris_.

Rinsed and neck-deep in the communal tub of steaming water, Paris tried to relax. But, my god, there was Chakotay washing himself in the area set aside for slaves: soaping himself, rinsing, absorbed in the dreamy pleasure of getting thoroughly clean. Lamp light on that glistening skin, turning it golden— Paris tore his gaze from the kneeling figure and focused instead on the skeletal merchant across from him, droning on to a friend about some complex deal involving rotten fish.

Chakotay seemed cheerful when he knelt on the deck just behind Paris’s head. “Bed, Lieutenant?” he murmured into Paris’s ear.

 _Damn you, Chakotay_. As Paris clambered out of the water, he caught a glimpse of Chakotay’s mischievous grin. Double damn you, Chakotay.

When the Commander meekly wrapped Paris in what passed for a towel here, and began to rub, Paris grabbed it away. “I can do that,” he said drily. “Commander.”

Chakotay inclined his head. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

It was a relief to reach their room, away from judging eyes.

Paris dropped onto the mattress on the floor. “You wouldn’t have been _trying_ to humiliate me, would you, Commander?”

Chakotay’s grin was pure mischief. “Sorry, Lieutenant; I couldn’t help myself.” Then, “I should probably be sleeping there, you know.”

Shit. Paris stretched out on the rustling mattress—what was it filled with, hay?—and closed his eyes. There was a draft. “You’d need another blanket,” he said.

“We’ll take care of it,” Chakotay said briskly. Paris opened his eyes; Chakotay was looking down at him with undisguised friendliness gleaming in his dark eyes. “Come on, Lieutenant.” He reached down to pull Paris up.

“I hate this planet,” Paris said. He grabbed a blanket, felt it, tossed a thicker one to Chakotay.

“I’ve certainly had more enjoyable away missions,” Chakotay said drily. He wrapped the blanket around himself and paused. “But you’re doing a very good job, Lieutenant.”

Praise from Chakotay? “Uh, thanks, Commander. Oh—and remind me tomorrow that I beat you black and blue tonight.”

Chakotay eased himself onto the mattress and closed his eyes. “I’ll limp and whimper a lot.”

“Don’t overdo it.” Paris blew out the candle and stretched out. A bed. Migod, a bed.

“You know, Vaneet’s men are actually pretty intelligent and interesting.” Chakotay’s voice was sleepy. “Rao makes up stories. Sei knows about a hundred funny songs. They like Vaneet. They feel lucky, because when he beats them, he uses his open hand instead of his fist or a whip; and when he has sex with them, he makes sure they enjoy it.”

“Shit, that’s pathetic.”

Relaxed sigh. “They’re surprisingly happy.”

That was even more pathetic. “Good night, Commander.”

“Good night, Lieutenant.”

Happy. Pathetic. But Chakotay said it as if he sympathized—or at the very least understood.

——

Sometime during the night, Paris woke. He raised up and looked around the room. Everything okay. The blanket-wrapped bundle that was Chakotay snored gently. Paris grinned down at him. This was familiar; it was reminiscent of a hundred sleep-overs he’d hosted as a child. He lay back, smiling. Kevin Seabring, who’d wet the bed. Luis Radowsky, who’d spooked both Paris _and_ himself with his scary stories. Ned Smithton, who’d—

Paris caught his breath. Well, actually, _Paris_ had instigated that. Both of them teenagers and full of hormones, Ned honest about his homosexuality, and Paris curious, especially after watching Roger Ives’ _Iliad_ in all its unexpurgated glory: Achilles, beautiful and fierce, bedding an eager Patroclus in luscious detail; and Paris’s mouth had dried with lust.

So, Ned, sleeping over, on a mattress beside the bed, awakened to find Paris nervously slipping in beside him. And shyly reached out.

In his cold bed on Verka, Paris wrapped the blanket closer and smiled. My god, they’d both been virgins—at least, when it came to _that_ —though virginity was long gone by sun up. It had been awkward and painful and glorious, all at the same time. And then the summer—they must have tried every damn thing two males could do with each other. Now he sighed into darkness at those impossibly innocent days, when they’d happily explored the boundaries of pleasure, before either learned that he couldn’t always feel this happy or this strong.

Chakotay murmured and shifted. _When I fuck my slave_ — Ned, on that bed beneath his. _Get your mind away from that, Paris_.

But what would it be like to have the right to use the body on that mattress? Naked, in a soft nest of thick blankets, the warm body stirring as Paris slipped into the bed, the thighs automatically parting and the snug ass obediently lifting to the perfect angle, even before the slave fully climbed out of sleep; lush mouth slackening with pleasure as Paris slid again and again into tight, compliant flesh, husky voice crying out ecstatically—

Oh, for— Paris savagely wrenched his mind right away from that scenario; such a lovely one, too—the rape of a passive slave—and was that supposed to be Chakotay? Slip into Chakotay’s bed, and you’d be lucky leave it with just your genitals ripped off.

He grinned into the darkness. No tapping _Chakotay_ on the shoulder. Just go back to sleep, Paris. Nothing doing _there_.

——

Vaneet apparently didn’t agree. Halfway into the next morning, Paris took a little stroll; sick of watching Chakotay trudge alongside Rao and Sei, he went in search of some delicacy for lunch. When he returned, he noted Chakotay’s set jaw, saw the frowns the other two were giving him.

Hmm. Paris brought Chakotay a cup of water.

“Don’t—” Chakotay whispered. “Don’t—go off again.” He flashed an embarrassed grin, turning a rich color. “Vaneet apparently likes to sample the talent.”

Paris felt all the blood drain to his feet. “ _What?_ ”

“Just—some—just his hands.” Chakotay gave an embarrassed little laugh, and his eyes met Paris’s; then he forced them down again. “No call to act like an outraged duenna. But—stick around here. Remember, I—I can’t actually tell him no.” The gaze again; and Chakotay remembered that he couldn’t do that, either, and looked down again.

Damnshit. Paris looked over to where Vaneet was frowning over his books. He felt like ripping off the man’s cock and stuffing it down his throat, but they needed the damned redstones.

Lunch, and Chakotay enjoyed the little autumn berries Paris had bought as much as Paris had hoped.

Lunch over, and Chakotay jumped when Paris rose, tapped him on the shoulder, and led the way across the street.

“Where are we going, Lieutenant?” Chakotay whispered.

“To fuck our brains out, sir.”

Sleazy little place in sight of Vaneet’s shop. Paris dropped a redstone into the hand of the old woman who ran it; “Four,” she said; and they entered the grimy labyrinth of curtained alcoves. Alcove four was barely bigger than its bed, but they were safe from watchers—at least Paris _hoped_ they were.

They sat side by side on the lumpy bed. From two sides came the sounds of professionally enthusiastic sex.

“ _This_ takes me back,” Chakotay said.

_Huh?_

Chakotay flashed an amused glance at him. “Don’t look so surprised. I was once young and full of hormones.”

“Not _you_ , Commander.” Really.

Chakotay laughed. “She was beautiful and thought she was wild; and I was completely smitten. We found a place rather like this on Merka’a Seven, and she thought it would be fun. It was—” He turned red and laughed. “It was not exactly my finest hour. Place made me too nervous.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Paris said. “And I once came very close to acquiring it.” He regretted the words almost as they came out of his mouth; Chakotay didn’t really need any more ammunition to use on him.

But Chakotay was regarding him thoughtfully and with a tinge of sadness. “You’ll have to tell me about it sometime,” he said.

This was a switch: no judgment of Paris, no morally superior tone. Nice. Paris rested against the wall behind them, eyes closed.

“We _are_ staying more than five minutes, aren’t we?” said Chakotay.

“You bet.”

Chakotay chuckled.

“I’m surprised,” Paris said, looking at him. “I thought by now you’d have at least led the first revolt, Prime Directive or no Prime Directive.”

Chakotay looked thoughtful. “Believe me, it’s tempting. And if we were going to be here a while, I’d probably— Well, I’m not sure I could do much of anything. Actually, Tom, the Prime Directive doesn’t just protect indigenous cultures. It protects _us_. People like Rao and Sei aren’t going to join in any rebellion; and I’d just get killed starting one.” Still, he looked a little sad.

“ _I’d_ follow you,” Paris said softly.

Chakotay smiled at him. “Then I’d get us both killed. And Captain Janeway would never forgive me. For that matter, neither would half the women on the ship.”

Smart ass. “More like three-fourths,” Paris said, standing.

“You’re over-estimating again,” Chakotay said, falling in behind him. “Math always was your weakest subject.”

“Better that than Inter-species Relations.”

“Hey, I never touched those sheep.”

Paris was still grinning when they reached Vaneet’s shop. Rao—or maybe it was Sei—was hitching at his clothing, smiling in post-coital contentment.

“Mmmm,” Chakotay said; and, as Paris watched, he grinned at Sei and Rao, stretched blissfully, and held up two fingers.

 _Ham_.

Paris watched the other two greet him happily and ask furtive questions. Vaneet glowered at them, at Chakotay, and at Paris, who stared back evenly. If the son of a bitch wanted to start something, Paris was right in the mood for it.

But Vaneet just shoved everybody back to work, and the trouble was over.

Of course, there were other ways of getting into trouble—there always were.

Another night at the inn, and Paris was starting to think that a master-slave relationship could cut both ways.

“I’d like a bath first,” Chakotay said quietly before supper; so they both had to have a bath. Complete with soaping, which Chakotay at least accomplished with no nonsense.

Comfortably ensconced in hot water, Paris found his eyes drifting to the corner where Chakotay soaped himself, sluiced himself with water, did it again, water sheeting over the well-muscled body, that little smile curving the precise mouth. My god: if the captain could see him now—shit, if _anybody_ on _Voyager_ could see him now, he’d never go to bed alone again ….

Water highlighted the tan-golden skin as Chakotay strode over to take his place behind Paris, sparkled in the dark hair at the base of Chakotay’s thick, blunt cock. _My god_. Paris closed his eyes against a rising heat that had nothing to do with the bath.

Supper; and Chakotay’s meal occupied Paris almost as much as his own did. Was Chakotay getting enough to eat, and did he like the green stuff, and what about the purplish bread? And Paris having to wipe off his hands every five seconds, so he wouldn’t contaminate Chakotay’s food.

After the meal, he was singularly reluctant to go upstairs, where all they could do was go to bed. So he sat for a while with the other guests, watching them, listening. Most were having a drink and getting a shoulder rub from their slave; and Paris heard an impatient sigh behind him just before Chakotay’s hands shaped themselves to his shoulders.

My god. That felt—it felt pretty fucking great. He must have been more tense than he realized. Chakotay’s hands kneading away the stress—maybe they could rent him out as a masseuse. By the hour. Oh, hell, by the _minute_ , and they’d _still_ make a bundle, those hands were so—

“Gee,” Chakotay said into his ear, “this is going to be fun to remember when we’re back on the ship and I’m doing work assignments.”

 _Great_. “Thank you, Commander,” Paris said dismissively.

“Why do you call him that?” one guest asked. It was a new guy, and he sounded like he wanted to start something.

“It’s a nickname.” _Like it’s any of your fucking business_.

“It sounds like he gives the commands to you, instead of the other way around.” Still sounding belligerent.

“It’s our custom.”

A dismissive snort; and the man’s slave—a docile teenaged girl—poured him another drink from the pitcher. Paris felt sick when he looked at her and thought of her in the man’s bed.

“Maybe you should use my name instead of my title,” Chakotay said when they were alone upstairs.

“This is an away mission. You’re still the Commander.” _Even if I did buy you naked in the slave market_.

Paris sat on the end of the bed and started to take off his boots. For some reason, he felt angry. At— Well, he wasn’t sure who, but possible targets included the man downstairs, Vaneet, the entire fucking Verkau culture, and—and this made no sense at all—all the damned slaves who allowed themselves to be used, including—and this _really_ made no sense—Chakotay, who wasn’t foaming at the mouth about everything the way Paris expected, but who was taking it all calmly, trying to blend in. Paris was sick of trying to blend in. He had to make all the fucking decisions and figure out how to keep out of trouble and deal with the fucking master race, while all Chakotay had to do was—

He took a deep breath and watched Chakotay undress for bed. While all Chakotay had to do was not get smacked around by Vaneet or whipped by the guard for breaking some obscure rule of being a slave. Oh, yes, and not get raped.

“Rao and Sei were telling me that west of the mountains slavery is illegal and people can’t take slaves back over the border to sell,” Chakotay said. “If you can get there, you can stay put.”

“Think they’ll try to escape?”

“No.” Chakotay looked sober. “I think they like to talk about it to make themselves feel better.”

Fucking pathetic.

“The guys are really jealous,” Chakotay said, stretching out on his mattress.

“Of what?”

“Of me.” Chakotay was grinning. “I’m afraid I may have exaggerated your sexual prowess. I think they’re hoping that whichever one doesn’t get the nod from Vaneet tomorrow, _you’ll_ take.”

Shit. Paris found himself laughing. “Maybe I will. That Rao has a pretty nice ass.”

“That’s Sei. But Rao has a little crush on you.”

Oh, _shit_. Paris blew out the light, trying not to laugh. He heard Chakotay yawn.

“It is _me_ you’re taking to that sleazy place tomorrow, isn’t it, Tom?”

Silence. Paris grinned into darkness.

“Tom?” Paris could almost hear the grin.

Silence.

“ _Lieutenant?_ ” The word was ragged with laughter.

“Whatever you say, Commander.”

Chakotay’s soft chuckle warmed the chilly darkness.

——

Awake again; and alert again. Paris sat up and stared at the darkness, matching shadows to memory, listening. All systems normal. He lay back.

All systems except one, of course. His damnshitfucking libido. Yellow alert there—and edging close to red. _Chakotay on one knee in the slave section of the bath, water sheeting over him as he rinsed himself_. _Chakotay’s hands soaping Paris, sliding over places that nobody touched unless he was reciprocating_. Oh, yeah—pretty damn close to red.

 _Full stop, Lieutenant_. He stared at the ceiling, tried to empty his mind. My god, it must be true: a guy really _did_ go nuts unless he got sex every, say, forty-eight hours. That was the _only_ explanation for where his mind was veering. My god, _Chakotay_ , of all damnfool lust objects. May as well be _Tuvok_. Paris grinned. Yeah— _that_ image really iced up the old cock. But—oh, shit—the barest thought of Chakotay melted the ice right off. Chakotay’s mouth quirking in a sudden grin; that thick cock bobbing slightly as he walked; those knowing hands.

He bit back a groan. Just _quit_ it—just—

Paris flopped onto his side. Pathetic. That’s what it was: just pathetic. Fixating on the nearest warm body. _Warm_ …. Shit— _quit_ it.

He frowned over the side of the bed at the shadowy bundle of Chakotay. He did have to admit that Chakotay wasn’t all that bad looking. Even if you _hadn’t_ seen what lay beneath the uniform. Sometimes his eyes seemed a little small; and from some angles his face looked all jowl and monumental nose. But the profile was interesting, and the tattoo suited him.

Paris grinned. That was _not_ the reason Chakotay had gotten tattooed—Paris _knew_ it wasn’t—he _knew_ there was a spiritual reason. But it did look good on him, and the Commander wasn’t completely free from vanity. Chakotay wasn’t the first guy whose hair was losing its gray as time went on.

And women responded to those looks. B’Elanna Torres had a thing for him. So did the Captain. And about fifteen or twenty other assorted female crew members Paris could name. He smiled. And more than one alien. Like the wife of the ambassador from Yt’l. My god, the look on Chakotay’s face at that state dinner, when she seemed to have lost something and was apparently rummaging for it in his lap ….

But good looks aside, Chakotay really didn’t have much to offer. He could be a judgmental, condescending, self-important son of a bitch who gave orders like they were his own Prime Directives. He could strip the ego off a chief helmsman with just a glance. He was arrogant, over-critical, and way too fucking sure of himself.

Paris lay back and closed his eyes. Just keep your mind on that, Paris. No need to remember that Chakotay could also be funny, supportive, and very gentle with the fragile. Forget that having him at your back in a fight felt like having half the Federation fleet behind you, that those barked out orders could guide you out of a panic like a flexisteel safety line. Dismiss the way a joke warmed those dark eyes even if the mouth didn’t dare acknowledge it, the beauty of his hands at the conn, the fact that he smelled good. Really good. Just put all that right out of of your mind.

Just remember the Maquis son of a bitch who wanted to kill you, Paris, and you’ll get through this just fine.

——

Real trouble started the next morning.

Paris woke to a sky saturated with dawn and a room golden with candle light. Chakotay knelt on the mattress, hands easy on his thighs, eyes intent on the flame of the candle sitting on the floor half a meter away. His breathing was easy and slow; his face was more relaxed than Paris had seen it since they started this mission. Something relaxed inside Paris, as if Chakotay’s serenity had something to do with his own. He tried to move quietly as he got up, went downstairs to take a leak.

When Paris came back into their room, Chakotay was watching sunlight steal over the dark sky.

“Morning, Commander,” Paris said.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Get dressed. Paris looked at his tunic in distaste. “I think this needs a wash.”

“Not judging by everybody else’s.”

Well, Paris wasn’t everybody else. He ran a hand over his jaw, relieved to feel the smooth skin. “If we’re here much longer, I’ll need to find a razor.” The Verkau didn’t grow beards, and the Doctor’s solution would last only so long.

Paris saw Chakotay smile. He could afford to be sanguine, since he didn’t grow much of a beard, himself; Paris was the one who’d end up looking like the werewolf of Verka.

“I’ll ask the guys,” Chakotay said, putting on his shoes.

“Try not to make it sound like some weird sexual kink, would you?”

Chakotay laughed.

But something— Paris put on his own boots. Something was nagging at him—something about Chakotay.

When Chakotay finished dressing and stood ready to go out, Paris realized what it was.

Chakotay hadn’t so much as glanced at him the whole time.

“Commander?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Eyes still focused on the floor.

Shit. Paris’s heart started racing for really no reason whatsoever, except that Chakotay not looking at him was—

“ _Commander?_ ”

“Yes, Paris?” Staring at Paris’s boots.

Shit. There really was no graceful way to ask. So he did it the ungraceful way. “You _are_ planning to look at me sometime today, aren’t you?”

A hesitation. Chakotay shifted his weight. Uneasy. “I think I’d better— I forget myself sometimes. I think I’d better get out of the habit of looking directly at you, even when we’re alone.” Serenity had fled; Chakotay’s shoulders looked tense enough to deflect phaser fire.

Oh, shit. It was stupid—it was just a stupid, stupid thing—but with Chakotay focused on the floor like that, Paris felt cut off from him. And, surrounded by the damned Verkau, Paris didn’t want that distance from the only other person on the planet he could feel easy with.

“Well, if—” Paris wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.

Chakotay was smiling. “It’s just for a little while, Tom. Just—it’s just for a little while.”

But he didn’t sound as if he were trying to reassure Paris; he sounded as if he were trying to reassure himself.

——

Watching Chakotay that morning, Paris kept trying to veer from a ridiculous train of thought, which was why the hell it mattered to him that Chakotay did or didn’t look at him. After all, Paris was trying to keep him at arms’ length. And it was safer for Chakotay. Kept him from making the mistake of looking at Vaneet, who’d probably knock him down before Paris could intervene. But—but—

But it made Paris into one of Them, one of the Verkau, one of the fucking masters. And just when they were getting along so well.

Fresh in Paris’s mind was the flash of sick guilt and shame when he realized that to the Verkau he looked like a master, while Chakotay looked like a slave. That was almost bearable, as long as Chakotay didn’t treat him any differently. But now— Watching Chakotay laugh at something Rao—or maybe Sei—said, Paris felt a twinge of envy. And of loneliness. Stupidstupidstupid, but there.

 _Stupid_. Chakotay still slept beside his bed at night. Chakotay still sat behind him at meals, still razzed him whenever possible. Stupid to feel envious because another man could smile and Chakotay would see it. Melodramatic to feel fucking lonely because Chakotay was treating Paris like one of Them, when Chakotay was the only other person Paris could talk to. Stupid, Paris. Just fucking stupid.

——

More trouble started after lunch.

They ate in silence—well, Chakotay ate. Paris’s stomach kept seizing up on him and didn’t seem interested in food. He felt jumpy; he always did when he was unhappy.

So when Vaneet stood up and started toward them, Paris was on his feet and blocking the way before the merchant could come close enough to tap Chakotay on the shoulder.

Paris locked eyes with Vaneet, and everybody froze.

Dead silence for a minute.

Vaneet started around him; and Paris stepped in his way. Behind him, Chakotay had risen to his feet.

“No,” Paris said.

Vaneet stopped, looked annoyed. “Don’t you honor the kat’ree?” he demanded. “Have you forgotten how to be polite?”

 _Kat’ree?_ Damn—what the hell concept could be so esoteric that the universal translator couldn’t find a word for it?

“I only need once with him,” Vaneet went on. “And you can honor our bargain by using one of them.” Behind him, Rao—it was probably Rao, the one with the crush—got to his feet.

(“Shit, it’s some sort of tip,” Chakotay murmured. “Some sort of bonus for hiring me. Like the damned Ferengi.”)

And, shit, knocking Vaneet down probably wasn’t a real great idea. Paris studied Rao, who was trembling expectantly, like a shy girl about to be kissed; his hand kept straying to touch the fabric over his crotch. Paris looked back at Vaneet and tried to put a smile on his face.

“I haven’t forgotten how to be polite,” Paris said. _Keep it light, Paris, keep it light keepitlight_. “It’s just that— It’s just that—” He cast a meaningful glance down at Vaneet’s crotch. “—well, from what I’ve heard, after _you_ , I may not be enough for him.” _Give him that bad-boy-of-the-Delta-Quadrant smile. Hope he can’t hear your heart hammering_.

Half a minute went by; and then Vaneet decided it was funny. He smiled. Paris grinned back, trying to give it that we’re- _both_ -bad-boys-aren’t-we edge. Vaneet grinned back, a fellow bad boy indeed.

“Besides,” Paris said, looking pointedly at Rao, “I think _that_ one must have spent the whole morning thinking about you, he’s so hot to come—if you catch my drift.” _Wink at Vaneet; hope it means the same thing it does in the Alpha Quadrant_.

Vaneet looked puzzled for a heartbeat after the wink—apparently it _didn’t_ mean the same thing—but then he glanced at Rao; and then he _stared_ at Rao, and his nostrils definitely flared. He turned away from Paris and Chakotay.

“Strip,” Vaneet said harshly; and Paris watched Sei and Rao freeze and almost stop breathing for a minute.

Then Rao stripped hastily—wiry body, very hard cock.

Sei looked on with fierce eagerness as Vaneet circled Rao, stroking the tip of a finger here, sliding his hands there, stopping to whisper into Rao’s ear: Rao’s eyes closed in ecstasy; his hips jerked slightly. Sei’s hand wandered to his own crotch.

“I _think_ we better—” Paris murmured to Chakotay, just as, “Strip,” Vaneet barked to Sei, and Sei’s clothes joined Rao’s in the dirt. Hard body; harder cock.

“—get the hell out of here and leave them to their magic moment,” Chakotay finished for Paris; and at that moment, Vaneet looked over at them. His eyes were hard as duranium.

“When you return, have him unload that cart,” he said; and then he hoisted Rao—who was actually taller than he was—under one arm, and Sei—equally tall—under the other; and carried them into the warehouse. Both kicked a little—some sort of token resistance, since they looked ready to come on the spot.

The same old woman sat outside the half-hour-of-heaven hotel; “Six,” she grunted. Gee, the whole world must be in love.

Six was cleaner than four, which was a plus.

“Good job, Lieutenant.” Chakotay sounded breathless; Paris didn’t want to speculate why. His own heart was hammering, and there was a distinct pressure in his groin. Those hard bodies—and the one next to him right now, slick with sweat—

“Yeah—well, if it weren’t for Rao being so obviously ready to fuck, I don’t think you’d be very happy right now.”

“That was Sei.”

Moment for Paris’s brain to reboot; “I thought you said it was _Rao_ who has the crush on me.”

“I guess Sei has a crush on you, too.”

Oh, just great. Paris stared around at their cubicle, fighting not to laugh. “Well, I hope Vaneet doesn’t—hurt them. He looked ready to rip off body parts.”

“Oh, I think the guys are really, really grateful.” Chakotay was grinning at the floor. “Apparently this is one of their favorite scenarios. Some creative re-enactment of an ancient story; they love it, but Vaneet doesn’t get into the mood very often. Some ancient warrior who rapes his way through an entire empire. He’s about to sack a caravan, but they offer him a night with a virgin prince if he doesn’t attack. He likes the looks of the prince’s friend, too, so he has both of them strip at swordpoint right in front of everybody, carries them to a nearby cave, and then spends the night ravishing them both repeatedly. It’s a love story.”

It would be. “Repeatedly?” Paris said weakly.

“Well, you know those storybook heroes.”

Repeatedly. The body next to him right now, thrashing beneath him, coming hard, again and again—

“Somehow, I never thought _slaves_ would get off on rape fantasy,” Paris said, wrenching his mind right away from the scenario.

Chakotay gave a weak little laugh. “I’ve just given up trying to figure these people out at all.”

Paris laughed.

“May as well take our time,” Chakotay went on. “Vaneet doesn’t like to lose much time in the middle of the day, but this isn’t the usual fuck with lunch. That one, he just bends you over his desk, yanks down your trousers, and lets you hump your hand while he has his quickie.” He didn’t look up, but he turned red as Paris stared at him in stunned surprise. “The guys coached me for my debut over the account books.” He grinned. “See what I missed because you got territorial?”

Bastard. Paris grinned. “I could bring _Sei_ here tomorrow, if you like. Just say the word, Commander.”

Chakotay laughed and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. “I think you should remain a tantalizing fantasy in Sei’s fevered imagination, Lieutenant. Less possibility of disappointment.”

“That’s not what the Delaney sisters say.”

“What Delaney sisters would those be? Because I’ve _talked_ to the ones on _Voyager_.” Chakotay’s grin broadened at Paris’s chuckle. Touche.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Paris watched Chakotay’s face in the dim light. This wasn’t the Chakotay Paris thought he knew: the hard-nosed hard ass always on Paris’s case for not being perfect. This was a different Chakotay. This one had an actual sense of humor. This one had tried sex in an in-and-out hotel. This one could be chatted with like a friend.

Of course, it helped that he looked different than he did on the ship. The Verkau look suited Chakotay; he looked like Harry Kim’s older brother. (“I look like Marlon Brando playing Japanese,” Paris had said, seeing himself after the Doctor’s ministrations; “Who?” Kim had asked.) But there was something else, some other side to Chakotay that seemed to be emerging now that power had been taken from him. Perhaps this was the Chakotay that lay under the regulation uniform and the regulation behavior: the guy whose sense of humor could get him pounded in a bar.

“Why did you say your ancestors would find this funny?” Paris asked.

Chakotay stiffened. He opened his eyes. “I—” His fingers wandered over the tattoo. “I got this tattoo to honor my father, to honor his attachment to my people, to our old ways. I—” He sat up, stared unhappily at the floor between his feet.

 _Shit_. “You don’t have to—” Chakotay silenced him with a gesture.

“When I was young, I didn’t want what my father wanted for me,” he said. “I wanted Starfleet. I didn’t want the old ways; I wanted new ways, new people, new adventures. New worlds. I didn’t really—even after I changed my mind, re-centered myself, I felt like a fake Indian, like everybody could tell that I wasn’t really an Indian, that I was just trying hard to be something I really wasn’t inside. Even getting the tattoo, I still felt like people could see that I may have looked right, but deep down inside I wasn’t really very Indian. Sometimes I still—” He smiled. “You wouldn’t really understand. But even in the 24th century, race is—well, it can still be complicated.”

But Paris understood complicated, especially when it came to genetics. B’Elanna Torres blaming her Klingon genes for the temper that really, at heart, wasn’t ruled by DNA. His own father so focused on the family tradition of service to Starfleet that he disowned the erring son tainting the gene pool. Paris had never had to think about race, but he could understand the sense of being fake behind the facade; he’d felt it every time someone who knew his family tree looked at him.

“I may not understand race,” Paris said, “but I do understand family expectations.”

Something that may have been surprise flickered over Chakotay’s face; then he looked thoughtful; and a smile dawned in his face, as if he’d just been handed a gift. “You’re right, Lieutenant,” Chakotay said. “I think you do understand. At least a little.”

And Paris felt himself relax for the first time that day—maybe for the first time in a couple days.

“Think we’re finished?” Chakotay said.

“Sure.”

“Did I enjoy it?”

“Of _course!_ ” Paris grinned at Chakotay’s grin.

But not as much as Rao and Sei. Chakotay had about half the cart unloaded before they stumbled out of the other warehouse, hard-used and dreamy-eyed. They whispered and touched and laughed softly together while they tugged on their discarded clothes, whispered and touched and laughed softly together while they helped with the unloading—in fact, they looked like two lovers prolonging a tryst.

Vaneet didn’t make eye contact as he scuttled out of the warehouse and into his office: probably embarrassed.

Shit, Paris would be glad when he and Chakotay were away from these damn people.

——

Real Galaxy-class trouble waited until they got back to the inn.

Bath first; watching Sei and Rao flirt with each other all afternoon, after the earlier performance, had Paris on edge and feeling grimy, all at the same time. Chakotay’s hands soaping him didn’t help the edge any; Paris was startled at Chakotay’s shaky breathing and flushed face when he was done. Edge seemed to be catching.

Soaking in the tub, Paris resolutely kept his eyes closed. Relax. Just fucking relax. Yes, he’s over there soaping himself, naked. Yes, he’s rinsing himself, naked. Yes, water is making trails over that smooth skin as he stands up, naked. Yes, he’s naked. Just relax and think about—about anything but naked.

“Hey!” That fucking bastard from last night.

“Sorry, sir.” Chakotay.

Paris’s eyes flew open.

“Did I tell you to speak to me?” The bastard was right up on Chakotay, glaring at his bowed head.

Paris was out of the deep tub in one movement.

“No, sir. I—” Chakotay stopped himself, clenched his fists, visibly calmed himself.

“Did I _tell_ you to speak to me?” The bastard stepped even closer; one hand formed itself to hit. “Did I? Did I _tell_ you to apologize to me?”

Chakotay stood stock still, staring at the floor, his face a careful blank.

Paris grabbed the hand as it started a swing, gave a jerk that might have looked accidental but stopped the bastard cold.

“Problem here?” he said, stepping right up close to the Verkau, offering himself as a tempting target. _Swing on me, just swing on me, swing on me, you bastard_ : a fight would do him just no end of good, edge-wise. A good fight would be just really relaxing.

The Verkau glared over Paris’s shoulder at Chakotay, turned the glare on Paris. “The problem is your slave. Why haven’t you taught him not to speak to a master? Who does he think he is, apologizing to me as if he were a person?”

 _Oh, you hypocritical piece of shit_ , Paris thought with giddy joy. _If he HADN’T apologized, you’d have tried to hit him for that_. Shit, the fucker was tall.

“Gentlemen—gentlemen!” The bath keeper bustled up between them, oily with good humor. “Comecome, gentlemen! The baths of the House of Erkau are for relaxing, not for continuing petty quarrels! Ah, gentlemen, return to your bathing, before the guards of the House of Erkau, who are just on the other side of that door, hear your raised voices and misunderstand. Oh, kind gentlemen, if they hear you and think we are being robbed, they might do you some harm as they drag you to safety out in the street.” He paused, and silence fell in that part of the baths.

The Verkau glared at Paris, who stared levelly back. Ready he was ready—

The Verkau gave him an ugly look, turned on his heel, and stalked away. Disappointment rippled through the bath. Paris relaxed. His mouth tasted bitter with adrenaline.

“Now, kind sir,” the bath keeper said. “Back to your bath, kind sir.”

“I was finished.” Out of there; just get the hell out of there before he punched somebody out.

The shakes hit when he was almost finished dressing: reaction to being all wound up with no one to pound. Shit, he could use a drink.

Paris looked down at Chakotay, still naked and fastening Paris’s boots. Fuck. All the son of a bitch had to do was stay focused, stay humble, and stay out of everybody’s way. But he couldn’t even manage that. No, Paris had to spend his time feeding him and talking people out of raping him and making sure no fucking loser tried to pound him into pulp. _You have to take responsibility_. Well, Chakotay could just shove that fucking responisiblity right up his ass.

Paris got up and started out.

“Lieutenant?” Chakotay, stumbling to yank on his own trousers.

“I’ll be outside.”

He was sick of watching, sick of waiting, sick being a keeper. Chakotay would be steaming when he came out of the bath house: fucking let him. Fucking Verkau slave system; fucking society that let the Verkau on the other side of the river feel self-righteous about not owning slaves while capitalizing literally on their recapture; fucking arrogant sons of bitches so intent on feeling superior to slaves they bullied and beat that they took offense at every little thing. Screw ’em.

He didn’t even see her until he barrelled right into her.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry!” Manners mainlined into him from birth cut the circuit on the really good mad he’d worked up; contrition poured cold water on what remained of the heat.

It was that little teenager with the pugnacious Verkau bastard, now chasing some round fruit Paris had knocked out of her basket and into the dusty street. Shit.

“Here, let me help you.” Shit, Paris. Good going, Paris. Fuck up her day because you can’t control your temper—

His collar suddenly bit into his throat: someone grabbing the back of his tunic, yanking him up. He dropped the fruit he’d gathered.

Well, well, well, it was the son of a bitch himself. “What do you think you’re doing?” the bastard roared at him.

Paris twisted himself out of the man’s grip. Chakotay had just stepped into the street; he froze when he saw what was happening.

“I knocked those out of her basket; I was just—”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I was just—”

“ _She_ doesn’t need your help! She doesn’t need anyone’s help! Why are you interfering with my slave?”

A crowd was clumping up around them, and from their flat, suspicious expressions, someone was about to get hurt. And not the Verkau.

“You haven’t properly trained your own slave.” The bastard had an audience now and was working himself up good. The teenager had gathered all the fruit she could find and stood impassively behind him. “Why are you interfering with someone else’s?” The crowd murmured agreement. This was going to get ugly.

“Look, I’m sorry.” Out of the corner of his eye, Paris saw a couple guards edging their way through the crowd. Oh, fucking great. “It was automatic. I just—”

“I think I should teach you not to interfere with a good, obedient slave.” The bastard swung then, a roundhouse so clumsy and amateurish that Paris mistrusted it, and as he deflected it with his forearm, he automatically turned from a more lethal follow-up blow that never materialized.

A flurry of activity and the sound of a blow behind him, but he didn’t dare look; the son of a bitch could blindside him; but Chakotay was back there, and if someone had hurt him ….

So he risked a glance—about half a nanosecond, but he could have programmed a holoscene with the details: Chakotay, flat on his face on the ground, still gasping from a blow, with one of the guards standing over him, heel of one foot resting lightly on his neck. Just standing there, reminding him not to get up. _Shit_.

The other guard strolled up to Paris and the Verkau. “Gentlemen,” he said, “is there a problem?”

One thing Paris’s misspent youth had taught him was that once a cop was involved it was best to get your side in first.

“I’m afraid I offended this gentleman,” he said. “I knocked some things out of the girl’s hands and was helping to pick them up.” Self-deprecating smile with a little helpless shrug. “I didn’t realize I was giving offense; I truly didn’t mean to interfere. It’s just that where I’m from we help each other without even thinking about it, especially if we’re at fault.”

The guard studied him a moment, sizing him up, before turning to the Verkau.

“He can’t even control his own slave!” The man was practically frothing. He jabbed a finger at Chakotay. “That slave tried to attack me! You saw it! He was going to attack me! You know what the penalty is for a slave attacking a master! You should kill him now!”

 _Kill him_ — Paris’s stomach twisted inside out.

“He didn’t.” The guard’s voice was carefully neutral.

“But he was going to!”

“But he didn’t.” A little bored. “A slave isn’t put to death unless he actually attacks a master. The law is very clear on that point.”

“He was going to attack me! You saw him; he made a fist! No slave gets away with that! You should beat him now, strip him and beat him right now, here in the street. Teach him the lesson his master hasn’t. Break him right now, where the other slaves can see and learn.”

Oh, fuck. The crowd had fallen so silent that all Paris could hear was his stammering heart. His mind automatically began to weigh possible avenues of escape.

He saw that in that instant the guard decided not to like the Verkau. His eyes went flat. “What I see,” he said quietly, “is a man very much interested in seeing another man stripped and beaten in front of him. That’s what I see.”

A sharp intake of breath in the crowd; and Paris felt the mood around him shift. People were staring, sniggering, at the Verkau, who had turned a really ugly shade of red.

The guard turned to Paris. “Your slave tried to attack a master. He must pay the penalty. We can beat him here, or you can do it in private while we watch. It’s up to you.”

Everything faded for a moment. _We can beat him here, or_ — Paris struggled for breath. _We can beat him here, or_ —

“I’ll do it,” he heard his voice say as if from a distance. You’re not touching him, you fucking bastards. _We can beat him here or_ — Not fucking touching him.

The Verkau bastard glowered as Chakotay was jerked to his feet; he didn’t say anything; he didn’t dare.

“Where?” the guard said in a business-like tone.

“I have—I have a room at the inn.” Fuck.

His feet automatically led the way; his brain had seized up. _I’ll do it_. Just completely seized up, refusing to plan beyond getting Chakotay off the dusty street, away from the eager eyes. The inn keeper held his hand out for that night’s redstones and gave him a lit candle to light their way up the stairs.

 _I’ll do it_. But— The flame on the candle trembled. Oh, fuck.

In the room he would— A hundred plans slid past each other in Paris’s brain. Alone with the guards in the room he could—

Because he wasn’t touching Chakotay, and he wasn’t letting them touch him, either.

In the room, Paris carefully set the candle on the little table. Take out the unoccupied guard first; Chakotay would take care of the guy holding onto him.

The guard moved in close to Paris—too close for him to maneuver. Balanced on the balls of his feet. Hands halfway into fists. Ready for anything Paris might try. A leather strap hung at his belt, a thick, ugly motherfucker smooth and polished from use. Over the guard’s shoulder, Paris saw Chakotay staring at the floor, his face stony, steeling himself for …. _I’ll do it_. Something rose in Paris’s throat.

“In cases like this,” the guard said in a low voice, “there is a third alternative.”

A third— Paris took a deep breath. “Yes?”

“In cases like this,” the guard said, “where a loyal slave is defending his master from the attack of another master, as your slave was defending you, we can forgo the beating and escort you both out of the city. Of course, you can’t return. Ever.”

Who the fuck _wanted_ to return? Paris stared at him, suddenly able to breathe again. “I imagine there’s a fine,” his mouth said for him.

“Ten stones,” the guard said casually. Fucking cheap at ten times the price. “You can pay it to us.”

“Okay.” His voice didn’t sound much like his own.

Okay. His hands trembled as he counted out ten stones. _They’ve commodified everything_ , Chakotay had said; but who the fuck cared?

The guard handed five stones to the other—not even trying to pretend it wasn’t a bribe. Shit; Paris felt light-headed.

It lasted while they were escorted through the dark streets, lasted until they were shoved through the door at the side of one of the massive city gates. The guards at the gate watched, bored.

“If you come back,” their guard said in a low voice to Paris, his voice warm with pleasure, every word distinct, “we will strip you both and use the whip on every inch of skin, front and back, from your neck to the soles of your feet. And then we will sell _him_ to the crystal mines and have a feast with the proceeds.”

And that was it. The slam of the door sounded final.

He turned. A handful of buildings crowded up close to the gate, dark and shuttered now that the gate was closed. Firelight flickered in camps nearby: people too late to enter the city that night, people now staring at him and Chakotay with stony suspicion.

Otherwise, the landscape outside the city gate was featureless and flat, spread out in all directions under the star-washed sky still stained with sunset, empty and free. Free. Fucking free of the damned Vaneets and bullies in the city. Paris felt a weight the size of _Voyager_ lift off his shoulders.

“We can’t stay here,” he said to Chakotay. Even the low-life stragglers were looking hostile.

“We’ve got to find shelter. We don’t have any blankets.”

And not likely to get any, either—at least not that night.

The exhiliration waned pretty quick as they walked away from the camps and found some rocks to huddle beside. Shit. They were even farther away from where _Voyager_ expected them to be, outside the damn city. His legs started shaking: reaction. They folded right up on him in the lee of a small boulder. No blankets, no supplies. And only 37 redstones. They hadn’t even had supper. Shit: he’d fucked things up pretty good this time.

“I’m sorry, Commander. I—”

Chakotay’s hand came up and stopped his mouth. “Not every damn thing that goes wrong is your fault, Lieutenant.” His voice sounded harsh. He was shaking—Chakotay was shaking—though his fingers didn’t feel cold. “We’d have run afoul of that guy sometime.”

Paris moved away from the silencing hand. “Yeah, but now we’re—”

“Lieutenant.” Chakotay’s voice sounded tired and just the littlest bit shaky. “Let’s discuss this tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paris’s whole body seemed to be shaking now—not from cold. Sleep seemed about a million kilometers away. _I’ll do it_. He felt Chakotay trembling beside him. Migod, Chakotay was usually a rock.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” Paris said.

“I know, Tom.”

“I just didn’t want them to— I wouldn’t have done it.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to get out of that crowd. I was going to— I was going to—”

“Tom, _Naomi Wildman_ could have guessed what you were going to do.” Naomi was four. “Sleep, Tom.”

Chakotay’s hands guided him down. He stretched out on the rocky ground, nestled up close behind Chakotay’s warm, solid body. Shaking. Paris’s arm went around Chakotay, pulled him closer. Warm him. He was shaking—warm him up.

“Good night, Commander.”

“Good night, Lieutenant.”

The shaking faded long before Paris slept.

——

“I’m getting fucking tired of sleeping in the dirt.”

“Good morning to you, too, Lieutenant.”

Paris opened his eyes. Chakotay was standing over him, grinning down at him. Looking right at him. He reached down and pulled Paris to his feet.

The first sun was edging over the horizon, outlining the rooftops of the city. Paris stretched. Desert stretched west of them—well, maybe not real desert: the ground was covered with scraggly clumps of brush. Pretty open, though. Beyond the desert lay bumps of mountains, rosy with dawn.

“I’ve been thinking,” Chakotay said, staring off at the mountains while Paris pissed on a little bush. “We sent a team just west of the mountains—Kim and, I think it was Lieutenant Hargrove. It would be stupid to stay here on the off chance that a search team will think to look outside the city gates.”

“Passes might be blocked with snow.” Paris fastened his trousers. “Do the words ‘Donner Party’ mean anything to you?”

“You know I don’t eat meat.” Chakotay gave him a quick grin. “It’s early in the fall; we’re travelling light; I bet we could get through. And at least we’ll be in the right part of the country to find somebody from _Voyager_.”

He’d made up his mind. And he was the Commander. And, my god, he looked happier than he had for a couple days now.

“How many of those stones do we have?” Chakotay asked.

“Thirty-seven.”

Chakotay made a face. “Not much. We’ll need blankets and food. But, first, you’re going to buy me breakfast.” Sly grin. “Or I might just rethink staying vegetarian.”

The gate was open, and so were little shops just outside it. Breakfast; and then they found an outfitter who could have been the twin of Chaneet the Clothier.

Paris’s boots—too light for a trip through the mountains—were apparently worth a tougher pair and two padded coats. Paris bought gloves and another pair of socks for him and Chakotay; and the merchant’s satisfaction made it clear he felt he’d gotten the better of them.

“Do you know a man in the city named ‘Chaneet’?” Paris said.

“Ah, yes! My brother!” The man stroked the dust off Paris’s old boots. “We often trade back and forth. These will fetch a fine price for him in the city.”

Chakotay coughed. Paris grinned at him. “Well, you keep saying everything goes in a circle, Commander,” he murmured.

A couple blankets, a few candles, a tinder box— (“Oh, no,” Chakotay murmured; “Practice makes perfect, Commander,” said Paris, who’d heard volumes about how bad he was at making fires.) —hard rounds of bread and dried fruit, some dried vegetables that just didn’t even begin to look edible, a couple flasks to fill at the well, and a length of rope they could use to bundle it all into a pack; and they were down to fifteen redstones for emergencies.

“My ancestors walked hundreds of miles on water and a handful of cornmeal a day,” Chakotay said dryly, heaving the bundle of supplies onto his back.

“I didn’t know your ancestors took Survival 301.”

Chakotay grinned. “’Tolverson’s Revenge.’ I almost flunked that class.”

“I’d be more concerned if I didn’t know that _everybody_ almost flunks that class.”

And, off.

It felt good to be travelling, to be doing something instead of waiting around for somebody to find them. Instead of trying to outwit Vaneet. This was a pretty good road, paved with smooth stones. Mountains looked close, day looked dry and bright, wind was acceptably chilly; they’d be in the mountains and stranded at Donner Pass in no time.

Paris took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry, Commander.”

“Like I said, not everything that goes wrong is your fault.” Chakotay’s voice was firm; that subject was closed. “That son of a bitch would have gotten his fight some way or other; at least neither of us got hurt. You—” Paris heard him take a deep breath. “I’ve often thought you’re your own worst enemy. You figure you’re going to foul up some way, so you do, even if you have to sabotage yourself to accomplish it. And I don’t help; I usually wait for you to do it and then go after you with phasers on full. I’m embarrassed to tell you how much you’ve surprised me this mission. You’ve kept us fed and out of trouble, and you’ve managed to talk us out of some truly bad situations. And done a lot to help me keep at least some dignity. I’m grateful. Thank you.”

Paris caught his breath at the glow that suddenly warmed him. “Mission’s not over yet, Commander,” he said lightly.

“Yeah, there’s still Donner Pass.” Chakotay’s voice was warm and lazy. “And you’re just way too skinny to eat.”

Noon, and a rest for lunch. “Think what Neelix could do with this,” Chakotay said, grimacing over the rock-hard bread.

“Yeah, make it even less edible.”

The mountains looked close as the suns dipped into the west; “Maybe another day’s travel,” said Chakotay.

Sunset was spreading across the sky as they came upon an encampment: assorted travelers around a common fire.

“We should stop,” Chakotay said in a low voice.

“Nervous about making that fire?”

“Not even sure how to open the box.”

A man stood to greet them as they approached the fire: a gigantic man with two plump female slaves giggling behind him. In the shadows, men reached for their bows.

“Kind sir, we greet you! How may the merchants of the House of Tinau be of service?”

“We’re crystal traders of the House of Chakotay,” Paris said, “traveling to the western mountains. We’re hoping to share your fire for the night.”

The man looked around at the others, apparently got some assent from them.

“A strong traveler is always welcome at our fire,” he said. “Bandits are bold this close to the mountains; there is safety in our numbers.”

“Thank you.”

The fire was—fragrant.

“It’s burning dried dung,” Chakotay muttered. “Like the Plains Indians did.”

Which made sense, given that there were no trees around. But it added a flavor to the air that Paris wasn’t eager to find in his food.

“No, comecome!” said the man who’d greeted them when he saw them pulling out the rock bread. “Share food with us like a civilized man who wants only peace with his companions!” There was an implied threat in his voice that Paris wasn’t eager to explore.

So they sat with the rest. It was actually quite pleasant: the food had been roasted in sealed containers under a small fire and held no taint of smoke; and after Paris had made up some outlandish lies about his past, the other travelers decided he was good fun, and the mood turned festive. The leader of the group—the man who’d greeted them—sat beside Paris; he could hear the man’s slaves giggling and flirting with Chakotay.

“You must travel with us,” the leader said. “Bandits are quite fierce in this part of the country; they prey on lone travelers with no one to defend them.”

For a giddy second, Paris thought of that ancient warrior who’d so inspired Rao and Sei; “Thanks,” he said. _Repeatedly_ ….

It was as Chakotay was organizing their campsite and spreading blankets down for their beds that the problem started.

“A moment, kind sir,” said a breathless merchant holding out ten redstones. “An hour with your slave; he’ll suffer no hurt—”

Oh, shit, not again. “Uh, I don’t think so.”

And then, a couple minutes later, a woman, sidling up and offering twelve: “Only that beautiful mouth and those clever, clever fingers—that’s all I’ll even touch—”

And another man, clutching nine stones and sweating so hard he almost dripped: “My bed is soft; he’ll be comfortable and warm—”

The leader, with twenty: “My slaves have taken a liking to him, and I always enjoy watching their pleasure—”

When the next one started over, eager-eyed and panting, Paris had had enough. Time to make it clear that he had plans for this guy, so they’d leave them alone.

He bent over Chakotay, who was untying Paris’s boots, lifted his chin, and put his mouth on Chakotay’s: Starfleet Regulation Kiss 16, Lieutenant Laying Claim to His Commander.

The kiss stayed regulation Starfleet for 0.047 seconds; then Chakotay’s lips parted under his, and it became Kiss 28: Commander Buckling the Lieutenant’s Knees and Restarting a Dead Warp Core with the Excess.

Ohmigod, the heat of that lush mouth, the sheer presence of Chakotay’s mouth on his. Everything around him seemed to blur; there was only this kiss, that tongue exploring him, that breathing unsteady in his ear.

When Paris pulled out of it, his knees were so shaky he had to steady himself by grabbing Chakotay’s shoulder. Chakotay looked dazed as he fumbled again for the boots.

“Kind sir?”

 _Huh?_ It was the merchant, apparently unimpressed, eagerly thrusting out twelve redstones. Shit—Paris had forgotten him.

“As you can see, I have plans for him.” His own voice sounded harsh.

The merchant looked puzzled but walked away.

Paris kicked off his boots and dropped to the blanket. Wrap himself up tight; put another layer between him and—

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another merchant start over.

Well, _shit_. Paris pushed Chakotay flat on his back and got on top of him, pulling the blanket up over their heads.

Chakotay was laughing. “I just wish I’d been _half_ this popular in the Alpha Quadrant.”

Paris laughed down at him. Firelight filtered through the blanket—it wasn’t anywhere near as thick as the one the outfitter had shown them; he should have known not to trust the little weasel to get an exact duplicate out of the stock—and illuminated that laughing face. Damn. Twenty redstones was cheap for him.

“Maybe the Delta Quadrant just knows how to appreciate you.” Paris shifted, trying to take his weight off Chakotay while not uncovering them. “I can think of about twenty women on _Voyager_ —including Torres—who have a thing for you. And did the ambassador from Y’tl’s wife find what she was feeling for at dinner that night?”

Chakotay reddened. “She did, but—but I don’t think it was the shape she was expecting.”

Paris’s laugh sounded high-pitched even to himself: my god, he was losing it. My god, Chakotay smelled good.

Chakotay was shifting underneath him, kicking out slightly.

“What are you doing?” Paris said.

“Aren’t we supposed to be having sex?” A sly grin quirked the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not simulating sex with you, Chakotay.”

The grin got bigger. “And I suppose the real thing is out of the question ….”

“Commander!”

The grin was pure mischief now. Paris tried to remember how to breathe, tried to keep his mind off the fact that his crotch was just brushing Chakotay’s …. Maybe this had been a mistake.

Chakotay squirmed, grimaced a little.

“What’s wrong?” Paris tried to lift himself off even farther, which wasn’t going to work.

“Just my shoulders. That pack got kind of heavy after a while.”

Well, he could fix that. “Turn over.”

It was complicated and delicate and involved a lot of body parts brushing and being brushed, but finally Chakotay was on his belly beneath Paris, which, Paris quickly realized, maybe wasn’t such a good idea, since it meant that Chakotay’s firm ass was right beneath his—

He shifted to one side, leaned on that arm, started kneading Chakotay’s shoulders with the other hand. Chakotay’s sigh of pleasure almost undid him. _Just keep your mind on your work, Paris_. It probably looked more authentic from the outside than what they’d been doing earlier.

“You’re very good at that.” Chakotay’s voice was warm with contentment. “Even one-handed.”

“Thanks.” It felt good: Chakotay relaxing in their private little world beneath the blanket. He could do this. Just keep his mind off his cock, and he could do this easy.

“Torres?” Chakotay said sleepily.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Torres could be interesting.”

“If she didn’t rip your head off during sex.”

“Or something else.”

Chakotay was relaxing under the massage, and for some reason that was possibly the most wonderful thing that could be happening. Chakotay relaxed, after the terror of last night ….

Chakotay yawned. “If we keep this going much longer,” he murmured, “they’ll be trying to rent _you_ next.” He smiled at Paris’s laugh.

Blanket tucked over both of them; Paris nestled close to Chakotay’s warmth, on his back to accomodate an incipient erection. His hand tried to wander to Chakotay’s back; he tucked it firmly under the opposite arm.

Sounds from the leader’s tent made it clear that he was making it up to his slaves for not renting them Chakotay.

——

Paris woke for a minute or two late in the night, to find Chakotay’s arm draped across his chest. The four moons were just setting; a rock was poking him in the back; Chakotay was snoring directly in his ear; everything was perfect, just perfect.

He slept.

——

The next morning, he had a tantrum. “You dropped this pack _twice_ yesterday!” he shouted at Chakotay. “I don’t trust you to carry it properly!” He tossed the heaviest stuff onto a blanket and rolled it all up into a bundle. “We _need_ this stuff; you can’t go dropping it everywhere!”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” Chakotay sounded meek and confused.

“Here!” Paris thrust a blanket at him. “Maybe you can carry your own blanket without too much disaster. If you lose _that_ , you’ll just have to sleep cold.” He tied the ends of his pack with the rope and hoisted it onto his own shoulders. “Now, follow me and try not to get lost.”

Paris stomped into the caravan of merchants starting toward the mountains.

“You missed your calling as an actor,” Chakotay murmured.

“I was training to be a masseuse.”

Traveling with the merchants was slower, but it had compensations. They were interesting, and the day passed quickly. And not one of them seemed to want to beat or rape Chakotay, though one frail old man offered five stones for a quickie behind some rocks at lunch.

The mountains loomed before them, already peaked with snow. Paris had seen higher, namely the Rocky Mountains on Earth.

As they entered the foothills, the guards reformed ranks around the group, watchful. Good thing: movement behind the rocks didn’t look like animals; but apparently they didn’t dare attack.

They made camp in a flat area apparently often used by travelers.

Another supper; another bedtime; and another—

Chakotay was ready this time: the kiss slid immediately from a cautious Kiss 16 to a full-out Kiss 135: Commander Really Cutting Loose and Frying Every Brain Cell in the Lieutenant’s Skull. Emerging, Paris staggered. Chakotay was gulping air.

Planet. They were on a planet. And his name was—um— And—

“You better go to bed now,” Paris whispered as the inevitable merchant with the inevitable handful of redstones edged up.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Watching Chakotay dive for the blankets—all breathless obedience—was as staggering as the kiss.

Shit— _Paris_. Tom Paris. _That_ was his name. “No!” Paris said to the merchant.

Night air was cold, and that was really a plus, because he had this definite need to cool off. _That hot, delicious mouth_. Paris stretched, trying to ease the cramp in his shoulders from the fucking pack. _Those little sounds Chakotay made deep in his throat_. Breathe deep and enjoy the frosty air.

Another damned merchant started over.

Shit. Paris slid into bed; thought a minute; and then pulled the blanket over himself and Chakotay.

Chakotay chuckled. “They are persistent, aren’t they?”

“You know, you’d think they’d get the hint after—” Paris groaned and tried to find a more comfortable position over Chakotay. “You were right about that damned pack.”

Chakotay’s hands were on his shoulders in a heartbeat, kneading, coaxing away the pain. Paris groaned and closed his eyes. If he couldn’t see that face, if he just focused on the fact that he was getting a massage, if he ignored the hard, hot, welcoming body beneath him—

“What’s the worst thing Neelix has cooked that you’ve eaten?” Chakotay sounded really interested in the answer.

Okay, it was a distraction. “Worst. Worst would have to be the time he tried to make me a pepperoni pizza out of leeola root and that weird pink algae Kes was growing in the hydroponics bay. It tasted horrible, _and_ I came out in a rash because I was allergic to the algae. You?” My god, Chakotay’s strong hands, gentle on the really tender spots. A guy could fall in love with those hands.

“Corn soup. Made with those strange little blue peas that taste like rotten potatoes. My mother’s recipe, too. I may never be able to eat it again.”

“It’s always the stuff we love he seems to mess up. He added hot-pepper vinegar to Harry’s oatmeal one morning—said it tasted bland.”

Chakotay laughed. “Were you there the morning he spiked the orange juice? ‘Just a little hot sauce. Give it some _pep_.’” His imitation was uncanny.

Mmmm. Paris could stay here all night, in the half embrace, smelling Chakotay’s skin, listening to him.

“Hey.” A hand smacked his cheek gently.

Paris opened his eyes. Chakotay was smiling up at him. “You were falling asleep. That’s kind of insulting in the middle of sex.”

“Sorry.” Paris yawned, rolled off. Damn, he _was_ tired. And relaxed. Completely fucking relaxed.

Not so relaxed, though, that he didn’t notice the hardness pressing into him when Chakotay snuggled up right behind him. Paris’s eyes drifted half open. Surely Chakotay knew— And knew that Paris had probably noticed—

And it occurred to him that Chakotay did know. And that he didn’t mind Paris noticing. And for some reason that thought warmed him as much as the solid strong body behind him.

——

What he should have remembered was that every group has at least one son of a bitch in it. This one waylaid him the next morning, as he and Chakotay were starting off with the others.

“You shouldn’t carry a pack when your slave can do it.” The Verkau was glaring at him. Taking it personally.

“I’d rather carry some of it.” _And just what business is it of yours?_

“That’s no way to train him to carry it properly. All it does is teach him that if he does a job poorly enough, you’ll do it instead.”

 _Hold it together, Paris_. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said; and he stepped around the guy.

Who followed him. “Slaves shouldn’t see a master doing a slave’s job. They’ll stop respecting us. They’ll start thinking they’re our equals.”

Shit; he’d take Rao or Sei over this nitwit any time. “That’s certainly something to think about. And if you don’t mind, I’ll go—go think about it.” He charged ahead of the guy.

“Maybe I should—” Chakotay began.

“I’ve got it, Commander.” _Damn_ it.

Trudging along—the fucking pack cutting into his shoulders; and they hadn’t even touched most of the stuff in it yet; what the hell were they going to do with the damned stuff if they didn’t use it, because the last thing he wanted to do was bring another horrible food onto _Voyager_ for Neelix to force feed to the crew—Paris tried not to notice the calculating looks Chakotay was getting from some of the merchants—persistent bastards—and tried not to listen as Chakotay fended off the flirtation of the leader’s pair of slaves—pretty persistent themselves.

 _Maybe the Delta Quadrant just knows how to appreciate you_. Mygod: Chakotay as the sex object of the Delta Quadrant. Or at least this little corner of it. Who would have thought? And _why?_

Oh, don’t kid yourself, Paris; you _know_ why. You noticed why the first hour you spent in the damn baths; you understood why the first night he slept handy on the floor beside your bed; you felt why the first time you had to lay claim to him with a kiss. Quit kidding yourself. Your cock has known why for a long time; now it’s time for your brain to figure it out.

And Chakotay’s response last night: that hard cock pressed against one of the places on Paris that knew how to appreciate it. Shit. What would it be like to—

Deep breath; hitch the pack to a more comfortable angle. Shit. That cock, and Chakotay grunting breathlessly in his ear, filling him, filling him.

Deep breath; think about those clouds over there, coming over the mountains at you. Did that mean snow? Oh god, trapped in the snow with Chakotay, that beautiful mouth warming his, those clever fingers fumbling in places that generated heat just thinking about it.

And—what? Just what, Tom Paris? Because even if Chakotay was interested—and he was interested, oh, he was interested, mygod that kiss—what? Interested was fun, but going beyond interested was—dangerous. Not physically. Just—going beyond interested would alter their relationship. Change the delicate balance they’d developed over the last couple years. Shift it into something that—well, with Chakotay, going beyond interested wouldn’t be some quick fuck and a fling. With Chakotay, it would be something meant to last. Permanent.

Permanent. The very word made Paris’s heart pound, though not just with trepidation.

And that very fact itself sparked enough trepidation to make up for it.

——

As the morning progressed, the trail got steeper, the wind got colder, and the clouds above them darkened to a threatening color.

“Snow,” announced the caravan leader when they paused at noon to choke down some bread and dried fruit. “A major storm. But not to worry: we will be at Kirlnu before it hits.”

Chakotay wordlessly shouldered Paris’s pack when they started off.

Shit. That damn Verkau busybody would be beside himself with joy. “Commander—” Paris began.

“I’ve got it, Lieutenant.”

Damn it.

The snow didn’t hold off until they got to Kirlnu: late in the afternoon it started down in lazy swirls; and then it got serious. They came to the village in a snowfall so thick Paris could barely see the walls rising up before them.

Kirlnu turned out to be a village mostly of inns and outfitters. Most of their caravan ended up in an eccentric inn with a lot of stairs and alcoves and cubbyhole rooms that would be perfect for a holomystery. Hmm.

“Six stones a night,” said the inn keeper, a short man thick with muscle. “But—” He was eyeing Chakotay.

Paris steeled himself. Not _another_ one.

“Your slave looks strong and healthy,” the inn keeper said. “I’ll take three if you’ll let me use him once or twice during the day. He’ll be yours at night.”

“I—”

“I need wood stacked, water carried, that sort of thing.”

Paris felt limp with relief. _Not_ another one. “I’ll—”

“Yes,” Chakotay whispered.

“—be very _glad_ to let him work for you,” Paris said. “But—I don’t mean to be rude, but no kat’ree.”

The inn keeper snorted. “I have a wife and two slaves to satisfy,” he said; and two middle-aged women behind him and a young man sweeping beside him smiled happily. “It’s nearly worn to a nub now.”

Their room was a cubbyhole at the top of the stairs: one bed, big enough for two; one fireplace with one regulation cheerful fire; one small stack of wood, for the fireplace; one rug in front of the fireplace; and in the corner beside the fireplace, one metal bathtub resting on one end in a little square space with a drain. And not much room for anything else. Cozy.

Maybe too cozy. Because Chakotay eyed the bed and pretended not to eye Paris and eyed the floor and resolutely didn’t eye Paris and looked over at the bed and apparently relaxed when he noticed that there was enough room in front of the fireplace for a man to stretch out. Coward.

And still not cozy enough. Even with the fire, the room was chilly, and Paris had the feeling it was going to stay that way. No nice warm warp core to power a central heating system. Sleeping apart, they were both going to be fucking cold.

Snowy clothing off and drying in front of the fire, and Paris found his eyes straying to that bathtub. Hmm.

“Of course!” said the inn keeper.

And a few minutes later there was a scratching at the door, and he opened it to find a girl there—a slave with her head bowed—with two buckets of steaming water. With the efficiency of practice, she righted the tub in front of the fire, poured the water into it, and left. Well—

She was back in an instant with two more buckets. Chakotay was quicker on the uptake than he was; he followed her out of the room and came back with more buckets; and it was then that Paris realized with a sinking stomach that every damn time he took a bath here, somebody was going to have to bring up the water a couple buckets at a time. And, shit, she didn’t look more than twelve. Well, this would have to be a good bath, because it was the last he was going to take here.

He sat in embarrassed idleness while Chakotay and the girl filled the tub and brought in a couple extra buckets.

“Thanks,” he said to the girl as she left. She didn’t answer.

“Well, _this_ isn’t more than extremely embarrassing,” Paris said to Chakotay.

“They have a pulley system,” Chakotay said. “They just pull the water up from the first floor—actually, from the hot springs that feed the river under the inn. That drain over that is for the soaping up and for the bath water after you’re done. Her name is Aia.”

Pretty name. “After _you’re_ done,” Paris said.

“Huh?”

“The bath water gets dumped down that drain after _you’re_ done. It’s your turn, Commander.”

Chakotay blinked and then turned red. He hid it with a grin. “I’ll soap myself, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Coward.”

Paris tried to busy himself while Chakotay stripped and washed, puttered around rearranging their stuff, tried to occupy his mind, tried to keep it off the subject of Chakotay and naked and soapy. But the sigh of pure pleasure as Chakotay eased into the hot bath shattered all that effort.

“That bucket’s going to get cold if you don’t use it soon,” Chakotay said after a minute.

Well, actually, there were times when cold water was really great for bathing, because— But Paris obediently stripped and shivered his way over to wash himself over the drain.

Damn: Chakotay relaxing in the firelight, head resting on the edge of the tub, eyes closed, mouth soft with pleasure. Flushed with the heat of the water steaming faintly in the chilly air. Heart-stopping.

Paris tried not to look, as—

“If I were you, I’d try to wash in front of the fire,” Chakotay said. “Cold in that corner. Don’t want you coming down with something.”

—as he knelt on the rug in the warmth of the fire and used his dirty socks to soap himself up and swipe water over himself: washing two birds with one bucket.

It was quiet: crackle of fire, hiss of sleet against the shuttered windows, soft splash of water, uneven thump of his heart.

And without even looking up he knew that Chakotay was watching him.

Paris’s breath caught in his throat.

He managed a glance through his eyelashes: Chakotay _was_ watching, his expression half dreamy, half predatory. One hand absently stroked the rim of the tub, smoothing it as if it were something alive.

It seemed an hour between breaths, between heartbeats. Paris watched his hand smoothe soap over his already-clean arm, his just-washed chest. Chakotay, watching. He burned with the fire of that gaze.

He washed himself again, very thoroughly; laid out his socks to dry; and stood up as if he were alone and dumped the rest of the water down the drain.

Chakotay’s eyes on him, watching every movement.

Paris grabbed a towel, dried himself, very thorough, just a man taking a bath. Found his clothes and pulled them on.

Long sigh behind him.

And now the room wasn’t chilly at all: that fire put out a lot of heat. A _lot_ of heat.

“If we’re quick, we won’t miss supper.” Paris’s voice sounded husky.

“I’ll be down.” Chakotay’s voice had a rough edge.

So he went down by himself. Most of the others were halfway through their meal; their boisterous chatter diluted the thick golden honey feeling of Chakotay’s eyes watching him.

“Where’s your slave?” Shit; it was that damned busybody. “Probably still relaxing in the bath. He thinks masters should do the slaves’ jobs.” And, shit; he’d made a couple friends somewhat the worse for drink.

Ignore them. Luckily, Chakotay came down just about then, quiet and correct, the model of the perfectly obedient slave. Paris concentrated on being the model of the perfectly obedient master, passing back the choicest vegetables and the best bread.

The busybody and his friends stayed on the subject pretty much all through supper: their family’s slaves; their friends’ slaves.

Tiny cups of a really exquisite tea were handed around. The idiots got louder: obedient slaves they’d known; disobedient slaves they’d punished.

Paris felt his stomach clench. Complaints about the state of slavehood on Verka.

The crowd around the table thinned out. Tales of bad masters and what they’d done about it.

“—so his slaves got so unruly, he finally had to have them all beaten; but by then it was too late. The farm failed, and when he had to sell everyone, he couldn’t get half of what he paid for them. My father got them all dirt cheap, beat them into obedience, and sold them for a beautiful profit.”

Paris concentrated fiercely on the taste of his tea.

“I knew a master once who let his slave think he was as good as anybody else.” The busybody’s voice was thick with wine and pleasure. “Let him sleep right beside him after he’d fucked him. Did part of his work. We finally got together and we beat the slave for him. And then we beat the master. The master cried harder than the slave.”

Paris felt dizzy. The tea sloshed in the cup in his hand. Shit, here it was again they couldn’t get away from it they’d never get away from it not as long as they were on this fucking planet—

And suddenly Chakotay’s hand was beneath his, holding the cup steady, raising it to be filled from the pitcher Chakotay had in his other hand. Warm hand cradling his, steadying it.

When he finished, Chakotay let go and knelt just behind him, a warm and solid presence barely touching him. Watching his back.

Paris swallowed half the tea in a gulp. The busybody and his idiot friends were sniggering. And a wispy-looking merchant who was part of their caravan was casting covetous eyes at Chakotay.

Shit, he hated these people. Paris swallowed the rest of the tea, turned, and placed his mouth on Chakotay’s. The kiss stayed Kiss 16 this time, but only barely.

“I’ll be up,” he said.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Chakotay didn’t look at anyone as he rose and went upstairs.

Paris rose slowly to his feet. Something in him wanted a really good fight—wanted it bad.

But a thought wandered into his mind: Chakotay. If something happened to Paris, what would happen to Chakotay? Abused, probably: someone would beat him or rape him, or most likely both, and then—

Damn. He took a deep breath and started for their room without even looking over at the sniggering idiots.

The merchant followed him, stopped him at the top of the stairs. “When you put your mouth on your slave’s mouth. Why do you do that?”

Shit—the _kiss?_ He didn’t understand _kissing?_ “Uh—it’s a—kiss. It, um, tells him that—well, that I want sex. And it’s for, um—well, it’s pleasurable. For both of us.” Oh, shit—the damn kiss; he’d been kissing Chakotay every damn night, trying to send the message that this guy was his, and not one of them had had any fucking idea what it meant. Hilarity started to bubble up inside him.

The merchant got the half-wondering expression of someone seeing light for the first time. “You mean, it makes him enjoy the sex?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Ah! I am glad to know about this. It is so much more pleasurable when the slave enjoys the sex.” The merchant looked like a shy bridgroom discussing his wedding night.

“Yeah, it is.” Paris remembered this guy: his slave was a pouty young woman who looked demanding.

“I will try it. I thank you.” The merchant had an extra bounce in his step as he left.

Chakotay was wrapped up in his blanket, lying on the rug in front of the fire.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Paris said. “The Verkau don’t kiss.”

Chakotay sat up, looked at him. “You mean, every time we—”

“Yes, sir.”

Chakotay started laughing. He laughed harder than Paris had ever seen anyone laugh; there was an almost-hysterical edge to his laughter. Paris joined in: my god, all that warp-core meltdown going for nothing.

“We both should get remedial training,” Chakotay said, wiping his eyes. “What made us think kissing is universal?”

“And, we, uh, kind of blew the Prime Directive,” Paris admitted, fighting for breath. “You know that skinny merchant with spoiled-looking slave girl? I think he’s going to try it on her. We may have introduced kissing to the Verkau.”

“Well, just don’t tell the Federation.”

For some reason, this was almost as funny.

Paris finally caught a sobbing breath. “You know,” he said, “I think that merchant’s kind of in love with her. You should have seen him talking about giving her pleasure.”

“Strange sort of love,” Chakotay said dryly. “He gave her a pretty good beating yesterday morning.”

That _wasn’t_ funny. “You’re going to freeze to death on that floor,” Paris said.

“Actually, it’s nice and toasty.”

“It’s too hard to sleep on.”

“I’m fine, Lieutenant.” Chakotay’s voice had that stone-hard Commander layer to it.

Stubborn hard ass. “Well, you can have half the bed.”

“I’m fine, Lieutenant.” A hint of desperation had crept in.

All right. Paris went to bed, sighed extravagantly as he sprawled on the soft mattress.

“Good _night_ , Lieutenant.” Dryly.

“Good night, Commander.”

——

Even wrapped in every blanket on the bed, Paris kept waking up that night from dreams that he was shivering in a snow bank.

——

Morning, and Chakotay was up before he was: Paris heard him hiss with discomfort as he eased himself up. A stifled groan as Chakotay straightened, started the tai chi.

Good. Do him some good. He could have been warm and comfy in bed with Paris, who’d have been a lot more warm and comfy, himself.

He untangled himself from the blankets and draped one around himself as he went to open a shutter. Damn fire was pretty much out.

Snow was still falling as thick as before.

So it was a day lost to travel. A day where Paris sat beside the fire on the first floor, listening to the other guests swap lies about wonderful trades they’d made. Or sat in his room with a shutter open a crack, keeping an eye on Chakotay busy with wood and water in the snowy courtyard below, ordered around by the inn’s handyman, who never seemed to do a fucking thing himself except order Chakotay around. Much of the time, Chakotay was dogged by a boy about Aia’s age: a slave named Toa, who reminded Paris of an excited puppy.

The idiots didn’t appear until after lunch, and then they kept to themselves. Started drinking again.

Someone started a kind of card game downstairs in the afternoon. Paris watched closely, but the rules seemed to shift with every hand. Still, it was something to look at.

The idiots glowered at him and Chakotay all through supper. That was when the wispy merchant and his slave finally showed up: he was glowing, but she had puzzled mixed in with her pouty. Kissing must have been pretty complicated. Paris was giving no lessons.

And Chakotay was giving no quarter. He was back on the floor that night. Stubborn.

Damn. For some reason, Paris was on edge: sitting around all day, listening to the idiots, probably. And being fucking cold all the time; finally, “Chakotay, I’m _freezing_ ,” he said, sitting up.

In the light of the dying fire, he actually saw the bundle that was Chakotay tense.

Long silence.

Then Chakotay got up and came over to the bed. He looked down at Paris for a minute. “Move over.”

Oh, god, it was so much warmer with that warm body near his in the bed. Even though he couldn’t touch it. And Chakotay’s contented sigh as he stretched out. Wonderful.

“What, no kiss tonight?”

“Don’t push it, Paris.”

 _He let him sleep right beside him after he’d fucked him_. Paris smothered a grin. Stupid assholes didn’t know what they were missing.

——

Halfway to morning, Paris woke to the howl of the wind and the clatter of sleet against the shutters.

And to Chakotay wrapped around him like a big, snoring comforter.

Stupid assholes had _no_ idea.

——

Stupid assholes got really stupid the next day.

Snowing again—or maybe still. Flakes as determined as Neelix with a cause. So, damn it, another damn day lost; another morning spent moping around the fire downstairs, where there was conversation to be bored with and a card game to watch with no comprehension.

Lunch came, and the idiots were drinking good and hard. Chakotay went out into the courtyard to do something, and Paris went up to their room to mope around and be bored. He looked at the dried vegetables they were carrying, bit off part of one, tasted it, decided it tasted like rotting wood with just a hint of really old garlic, wondered what Neelix could ruin with it—

Something was going on in the courtyard; somebody was yelling, and—

Paris pushed open the shutter.

And saw: the courtyard half swept, with a broom lying on the pavement and Chakotay’s coat folded carefully on the woodpile; saw that that son of a bitch handyman had his strap out and swinging down hard; saw movement as Toa headed for clear space; saw Chakotay jammed up against the wall so he couldn’t move, with the bastard handyman holding him half bent over, with a hand tight on the back of his neck; saw that strap coming down, coming down, coming down.

Things went blank for a minute; and when he could see again, could hear again, he was in the courtyard.

They were clear on the other side. Chakotay was already wincing hard away from the strap; by the time he was within reach, Chakotay’s breath was coming in little gasps just this side of a yelp.

Paris grabbed the arm wielding the strap, ripped the fucking strap right out of it and tossed it away, twisted the arm and shoved the fucking bastard son of a bitch against the wall, yanking hard.

Chakotay staggered, grabbed the wall to steady himself. He was gulping for air.

“Can you get upstairs?” Paris’s voice sounded more steady than he felt.

Chakotay nodded.

“Go on up.”

And Chakotay eased away. It physically hurt to watch him limp across the courtyard.

Paris focused for a minute on not letting his hand do what it really wanted to do, which was break the bastard’s arm in sixteen places or maybe just rip it off completely. The bastard wasn’t real happy.

“Your slave—” he began; and Paris gave a jerk.

“If you touch him again,” he said, every word precise, “I’ll break your arm.”

The bastard glowered at him when Paris released him. “You don’t beat him enough,” he said. “He seems to think he’s just like a real perso—”

Paris’s fist slammed right into his mouth.

There was a really satisfying moment where the bastard dropped like a dead shuttle and sat there on the snowy pavement for a minute, looking surprised. Paris enjoyed the moment, examined his hand for cuts.

Then he picked up Chakotay’s coat and went up to their room.

Chakotay was pacing, gulping deep breaths and occasionally wincing.

“He was going to beat Toa,” he said the instant Paris came into the room. “He was going to do this—to _Toa_.”

“Let me look.”

“I stopped him. That son of a bitch was going to—”

“ _Damn_ it, Chakotay—let me _look!_ ”

“But he didn’t. I stopped him. He didn’t even lay a hand on—”

“ _Damn_ it, Commander!”

Chakotay stopped then, seemed puzzled that Paris was so excited. “I can’t believe he was going to do this to a child.”

Paris lifted Chakotay’s tunic as gently as he could. Shit. That strap had done some damage, even through Chakotay’s tunic.

“How is it?” Chakotay asked.

“I don’t think the skin’s broken, but—” Paris winced at the red welts across Chakotay’s back. “I don’t think you’re going to be very happy for quite a while.”

“He was going to do this to a _child_.” Chakotay arched his back, straightened again, grimacing. “A _child_.” He shifted again. “ _Shit_. I can’t seem to get comfortable.”

“Why don’t you lie down?”

Paris’s mind was racing through everything he’d picked up from the Doctor. He eased Chakotay onto the bed, on his stomach; pulled a blanket over him; stopped his hand from stroking the dark hair.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Chakotay’s eyes were closed; one hand slid out, toward Paris.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Paris said. “It could still go septic.”

Chakotay grinned softly. The hand was shaking. Paris looked at it a minute, and then reached over and gave it a squeeze. Chakotay squeezed back, and then he relaxed.

“It doesn’t really hurt all that much,” Chakotay said. “It’s just the—it’s just the shock that he—” The hand clenched.

Paris felt sick. The shock that the son of a bitch had actually beaten Chakotay. That’s what it was. Paris could understand the shock of being physically attacked by a brute. He put his hand over Chakotay’s, warmed it. The hand relaxed.

Damn it: what the hell did Paris know about bruises? Real bruises, like Chakotay had? All he seemed to know was, you used the regenerator on them. And if you were on an away mission, you used the regenerator in the medkit. And if you didn’t have a medkit, you got the patient up to _Voyager_ and used the regenerator there.

Except—some vague memory of—you put something hot on one kind of injury and something cold on another because—well, cold reduced swelling, like— Oh, shit. Something cold on those welts. Chakotay wasn’t going to like that one bit.

“Commander?”

“Hmm?” Sleepy.

“I think I need to do something about those bruises.”

Chakotay went wide awake when Paris put the socks filled with snow—damn, socks were handy; you could do just anything with them; maybe the Academy should do a class just on the creative use of socks—on the worst of the welts.

“This better be necessary.” Chakotay’s voice sounded kind of thin.

“Reduces swelling.” Paris had learned early from the Doctor that it was best to sound brisk. Made you sound like you knew what the hell you were doing.

“Well, it does kind of—numb things.”

“Good!” Said like he meant it to do that.

He sat beside Chakotay; and pretty soon the part of him that was waiting to tell him just how badly he’d fucked things up this time sang out clear and strong. It had happened: what he’d been waiting for since he’d realized what they were in for on this stinking planet. Chakotay had gotten hurt.

“Not everything that happens is your fault,” Chakotay said.

“Huh?”

Chakotay opened his eyes, cocked an eyebrow at him. “I _said_ , not everything that happens is your fault. I mean it, Lieutenant. This isn’t your fault. Toa made him angry, I got in the way, and he decided to show me my place.” Half a grin slid onto his face. “You know, the whole universe doesn’t revolve around you. The rest of us can get into trouble all by ourselves, thank you very much.”

Paris grinned at him.

Chakotay’s eyes warmed up. “Did you break anything on him?”

“I just punched him in the mouth.”

Chakotay smiled. “That shows admirable control, Lieutenant. I’m proud of you.”

Smart ass.

“And these damn socks are leaking.”

Oops—time for another pair. Paris filled them at the windowsill and exchanged them for the soggy ones. Damn. They’d have to be dried out before he could use them again, or they’d dribble all over.

“How many pair of these damned things do we have?” Chakotay’s voice sounded tight.

“Well, there’s the ones we have on—”

“You put dirty socks on me, Paris, and you’ll be scrubbing Jeffries Tubes for a month.”

“Yes, Commander.”

And for some reason he couldn’t stay still unless he was sitting right beside Chakotay, which was okay because Chakotay seemed more relaxed when Paris was right there.

“This is a sick culture,” Chakotay murmured.

“Agreed.”

And when those socks soaked through, Paris did a quick examination: skin roughed up several places, but no bleeding. Chakotay’s back looked redder—but maybe that was from the snow. But not really that bad.

“Feels better.” Chakotay’s voice sounded contented.

“Good.”

He sat right there on the bed until Chakotay fell asleep.

——

Downstairs to arrange for supper to be brought up, because he wasn’t going to let those bastards see Chakotay limping around. The idiots were drinking near the fire. The inn keeper wasn’t real happy to see him.

“I wish to apologize for Theer. He should have let you beat your own slave. But you needn’t have—”

Paris looked at him; and the inn keeper saw something in his eyes that shut him up fast.

Turning to go back upstairs, Paris found his way blocked by idiots.

“So, the slave got his beating,” the busybody from the caravan said, grinning. “Now the master should get _his_.” He stepped forward.

All right.

The young man was sweeping the floor nearby; Paris said, “Excuse me,” and took the broom from him. Not a pool cue, but it would do.

A _crack!_ of the handle across the side of the busybody’s head, and his knees wobbled.

One more _crack!_ to the back of his head, and he was out of action for the duration.

“Who else?” Paris said; but the others stumbled away from him.

He handed the broom back to the young man. “Thanks,” he said.

Chakotay slept the rest of the afternoon. Paris watched him.

His own hands were shaking, and he couldn’t seem to sit still. His skin felt twitchy. He went to the window to look at the snow, he went to the fire to try to warm up. He tried to find something to fiddle with. It didn’t matter: he ended up watching Chakotay. Chakotay, warm in the nest of thick blankets, completely relaxed. Face soft in sleep. Occasionally murmuring parts of words. The whole room seemed to have arranged itself around him.

Stubborn, hard-headed, soft-hearted hard ass.

Chakotay sighed, waking; and Paris was across the room in an instant.

Chakotay winced as he eased up. “My god, I’m stiff.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t—”

But Chakotay shot him a look that told him to quit nursemaiding him. “Really—it’s not that bad.” Crooked grin and a careful stretch. “I got worse in T’Nal’s self-defense class.”

“I had Dnieu. She was tougher.” Paris took a good look at the welts, which were turning some unhappy colors.

When Paris looked up, Chakotay was smiling at him: amusement, mixed with warmth. “I’ll be fine, Lieutenant.”

“Just making sure, Commander.”

The smile warmed up. His heart flip-flopped. Oh, shit.

Someone scratched at the door. Chakotay shifted, mouth tightening for a second. “Is that food?”

Yeah, it _was_ food. And Chakotay fed himself, lounging on the bed. Though—

“Yes, I had some of the bread,” Chakotay said. “And you don’t have to keep shoving things over for me to eat.”

Paris looked at the little plates of stuff he’d shoved over to Chakotay’s side of the table. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“I noticed, though, that you managed to keep all those little cream puff things for yourself.”

Paris stopped himself from chomping right down on the little pastry he’d just popped into his mouth—the last one.

“Well, I don’t want it _now_ , Tom.” Chakotay grinned at him over his cup of tea.

Bastard. Paris chewed, swallowed. “Sorry,” he said again.

Chakotay swallowed the last of his tea and shifted, grimacing. “ _Damn_ , I’m stiff. I’d really love a hot bath.”

Well, most likely the heat of the water would aggravate the bruising. But— _Chakotay in the bathtub, glowing in firelight, relaxed and contented_.

Paris went out and ordered the damned bath.

When Aia came in with the first buckets, Chakotay started to his feet.

“I thought we established that your back hurts,” Paris said, pushing him back down.

He went out himself to help with the damned buckets.

“What if somebody sees you?” Chakotay asked when he came back.

“The hell with them.”

Aia was skittish, but she stood by as he yanked on the pulley and brought up the steaming buckets. And when he sloshed some on his foot, he saw a flicker of a grin cross her face, just as he’d hoped he would.

When Paris came in with the next buckets, Chakotay was looking down at a squashed-looking little meat-filled pastry. “A present from Toa,” he said.

“That’s meat in that,” Paris told him.

“I know.”

Then Aia came in, and Chakotay bit into the pastry with histrionic relish. Her face glowed.

“Softy,” Paris murmured to Chakotay as he went out for the next buckets.

Nobody saw him; and he filled the bathtub with real satisfaction. Aia scurried out with the remains of supper.

Okay, so, now— Paris bolted the door and stripped.

Chakotay looked startled. He got up and started to undress, but—

Paris went over and took Chakotay’s hands off his tunic, stripped the tunic off Chakotay. Started on his trousers.

“I can—” Chakotay started, trying to pull away; but then he moved wrong, or something; and bit off the end of that sentence.

He stood quietly while Paris finished the job.

And now—

Soap, and the bucket of warm water, and the smooth slide of his soapy hands over Chakotay’s skin. Brisk, because he didn’t want to embarrass him; but mygod that silkiness: Paris’s hands lingered. Chakotay’s eyes were closed, and the color in his face was high.

Ease soap over the mottled back, dark with bruise.

“She gave me some oil they usually—” Chakotay’s voice strangled on the words.

“Okay.” Brisk; but he didn’t feel brisk.

Wind rattled the shutters. Nasty night. But here they were warm and alone, and anybody who wanted to hurt Chakotay would have to go through him.

The clear splash of warm water as he poured it over Chakotay.

And into the bath. Chakotay drew hard breath when he moved wrong starting down into the water; and Paris grabbed him. Chakotay’s body was hard and solid under his hands as he eased him down. Trembling slightly.

Chakotay sighed. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re welcome.”

So now it was his turn, and he knelt on the rug just in front of the fire. Sock-washing time again: he washed with his, and he rinsed with Chakotay’s.

It was hot and bright, there by the fire; the shiny tub reflected light. The fire crackled happily; it smelled good. The wind outside made things cozy. He loved the feel of soap, of water, of being clean.

And of Chakotay watching him.

Nothing covert this time. Just—watching, with a dreamy look on his face. Lips parted.

A hitch in his breath.

Paris took more time than he really needed to, rinsing himself, rinsing the socks, straightening them out on the hearth to dry. He rose to his feet, sloshed the rest of the water down the drain, slid a towel over the dampest parts of him. Casually wrapped it around his waist.

Reached for a dry one, for Chakotay, who was stubbornly working his way to his feet.

Paris helped him step out of the tub, into the heat of the fire. He dried Chakotay’s arms and chest, blotted his back, draped the damp towel around his shoulders to protect him from drafts.

Another towel for the hard legs, the small ass. Drop it. Stand up. And—

As Paris reached for Chakotay’s thigh, Chakotay put a warm hand on the back of Paris’s neck and brought him in for a kiss that went clear through every number in the book.

Oh, god—that mouth plundering his, blanking all reason. Then, hands, dragging slightly over the dampness left on his skin, all the way down his back; the towel twitched away, so that he was naked against that hardness, basking in its heat.

He slid his hands up Chakotay’s arms to cup his head, tousle the damp hair. One of Chakotay’s hands spread open warm over his ass, smoothing gently. Wet heat of the soft mouth; shaky breath against his cheek. My god, this kiss could restart the universe.

The kiss broke then, and they gulped air for a minute, staring vaguely at each other.

Then a light shone in Chakotay’s eyes, and he cupped the back of Paris’s head and kissed his cheeks, his chin, moved along his jaw to one ear, kissed his throat. Paris was vaguely aware that his hips were thrusting slightly, rubbing hardness against an answering hardness. One hand wandered of its own accord to Chakotay’s cock, exploring; and Chakotay groaned against Paris’s throat.

Oh, yes. Slide fingers gently along warp-core heat. Chakotay arched, thrust into Paris’s hand. Yes.

“Bed,” Paris heard himself whisper.

And the bed was somewhere away from the fire, somewhere on the other side of the room, but they found it anyway. Eased Chakotay onto it.

A fumble to find a position that didn’t hurt unexpectedly, pain soothed away with the heat of hands, with the slide of Paris’s mouth over hot silky skin.

Paris ran his tongue down the smooth chest, the flat belly. Ah, yes. Mouth exploring that dark, lovely cock. Chakotay’s groans were half ragged with gentle laughter. Paris glided his tongue over the hot length. And, _oh_ , yes. His hand found the heavy balls, happily explored them.

Chakotay groaned, thrust, groaned again. One hand firm on the back of Paris’s neck guided his head back up to Chakotay’s mouth.

“I want—” Chakotay said breathlessly; and his mouth plundered Paris’s.

So—

Paris’s hand wandered between their moving hips, gathered slickness there. Settled firmly around Chakotay’s cock, pumping.

Chakotay gasped against Paris’s throat. Then his own blunt fingers were around Paris’s cock, stroking, pumping. Paris felt growls building in his own throat.

They rode; they rode.

Chakotay crying out harshly, igniting— —and Paris was helpless in pleasure, riding the stroking of those strong fingers, arching, feeling— —Chakotay’s voice ragged against Paris’s throat as he arched, as he thrust.

An eternity later; and Chakotay sighed. It was a soft sound Paris barely heard above the shudder of his own breath, the thunder of his own heart. But it was the most wonderful sound: contented, satisfied.

He opened his eyes. Chakotay’s grin was happy and dazed, a mirror, probably, of his own. Shit. Oh, shit.

Chakotay’s grin broadened. He raised his sticky hand and showed Paris two fingers.

Paris laughed. “What the hell does that really mean?”

“No idea.” Chakotay’s other hand was just stroking the back of Paris’s neck.

Paris closed his eyes for a minute, gulped breath, tried to master his heart.

Then he opened them; and there was Chakotay. Locked eyes for a minute; and there was something there—my god, something there behind the tenderness and delight that had Paris breathless—and Chakotay bent and kissed him.

 _This is bad,_ Paris’s brain told him. _This is very very bad._ Because things could get complicated. Real complicated, real fast. _Stop this now, because this is very very bad._

 _Shut up,_ said his cock—and quite possibly his heart.

So it did.

A pause for breath; and Chakotay’s mouth was on his again: gentle, insistent. Kiss 47D: Commander Laying Claim to His Lieutenant After Some Pretty Great Sex. _Yes_ , said something inside him.

Paris was even more breathless afterward. And they weren’t through, they weren’t through, not by a long shot; Chakotay had that predatory look in his eyes—

Their mouths came together again, gentle, exploring. Appreciating. Yes. And despite the heat of the kiss, Paris shivered: it was cold over here, away from the fire.

A furious movement, and Chakotay was dragging up the discarded blankets, was wrapping them around him. So—

Wrapped in the blankets, Chakotay’s heart thumping against his. Chakotay’s hot mouth moving to Paris’s cheek, to his chin. Slow. Tender. Sticky hands cupping Paris’s ass. One finger finding the crevice and kneading the sensitive opening as Chakotay’s mouth explored Paris’s throat.

Paris arched and groaned happily. Necking. Damn, he loved necking.

His own hands shied away from Chakotay’s back: one found the tight little ass; the other tangled fingers in Chakotay’s hair, tugged up his head to position it for a good, long, deep, slow, satisfying kiss that lasted about a day and a half. Oh, shit, yes.

They were both struggling for breath afterward. My god, the faint firelight on that glowing face; those parted lips slightly swollen from kissing. Eyes gleaming, full of mischief and warmth, tender, slightly implacable—

“My god,” Chakotay said, looking down at him. “My god, Tom. You— My god.” One hand cradled Paris’s head as their mouths joined.

Paris’s hand massaged Chakotay’s ass, slipped between the cheeks to stroke the opening there, to ease part way in, slide out, ease in again. Chakotay’s breath caught; his hips rode the stroking.

They broke the kiss, looked at each other. Paris’s heart was beating hard in his ears; something was fluttering in his stomach. The wind outside battered the shutters. His foot stroked Chakotay’s calf.

“I wonder if we can ravish each other repeatedly like that guy in the story?” Chakotay’s thumb slid gently along Paris’s jaw; his eyes were dazed and happy.

Paris grinned happily. “We could find out.”

Chakotay grinned back.

And then the sweet mouth descended.

——

Repeatedly—oh, yes, repeatedly. The night seemed to last a moment—and forever. A night of Chakotay’s hands and Chakotay’s mouth, the way Chakotay’s groans turned ragged with need. The whisper of skin on skin, husky sighing. The warm musk of skin. The wind howling in the chimney. The light in dark eyes, reflecting him.

Tenderness where they’d found none, gentleness after brutality, warmth in a cold country. Comfort. The world contracted to this bed, to Chakotay’s arms around him, to Chakotay’s hands giving pleasure. A startled gasp when Chakotay moved wrong. A flash of fury at the sick son of a bitch who’d hurt him. The heat of that mouth on his skin, that tongue tasting him from mouth to cock. The tongue gently massaging the length of his cock; and a slow, deep, thorough sucking. _Yes_.

——

“When you got so mad at that woman who broke the glass. I knew then I’d be able to trust you.”

That woman— He felt sick all over again.

“And you’ve never once referred to me as your slave. Not once.”

“Really?” He thought he had; he was sure he had.

“Nope. Not once.” A roguish twinkle. “Of course, I’ve been ‘he’ed almost to death ….”

“Well, I couldn’t call you ‘stud.’ Not to strangers.”

“’Stud’?” Laughing. “’ _Stud?_ ’”

“Well, _Commander_ Stud. Too bad, too, because it’s so very descriptive.”

——

The wind rattled the shutters through the husky groan of Chakotay’s pleasure. His own hands seemed to exist only to smooth that velvet skin, his mouth to taste that hard body.

Salty skin, the throb of Chakotay’s heartbeat under his tongue as it glided along the hard shaft; Chakotay’s hands tightening in his hair; a rough shout as Chakotay thrust and heat spilled into his mouth.

——

“Oh, I don’t know. Harry, I guess. If I had to. What about you?”

“If it were any guy on the ship? Well, there are a couple down in Engineering who are pretty good looking.” Quirk of a smile. “But right now it’s kind of hard to think past you, Tom Paris.”

——

The only words he could count on to know were “god” and “Chakotay” and “yes” and “oh”; and every one of them was alive and new each time he groaned it. A sigh in his ear, and “please” and “oh” and “yes” and “Tom” and “Tom” and “Tom”—words infinitely erotic.

——

“If it’s a love story, then who falls in love?”

“The prince and his friend.”

Of course. Turning to each other in their terror and pain. Only natural.

“It’s the greatest love story in Verkau literature. Rao and Sei see themselves as those two lovers.” Chakotay’s voice was gentle.

“That makes Vaneet the bandit.”

“Mmhmm. Appropriate, I think. I think they kind of love him, though.” The dark eyes got merry. “Now, if we wanted a model and didn’t want to pattern ourselves after Romeo and Juliet, who could _we_ cast as the bandit? Neelix?” A grin as Paris laughed. “Harry Kim?”

Harry, ravishing _anyone_ repeatedly— “Tuvok. He dislikes us enough.”

“But, Tom—” Mock worry crept into Chakotay’s voice. “He only goes into Pon Farr every seven years. What would we do the _rest_ of the time?”

——

That body fit for his mouth to worship. Full lower lip to suck on. Big, oddly shaped ears worth nibbling. And, oh, those fucking erotic Verkau spots to kiss: down the nape of the stubborn neck, through the minefield of bruises, down to linger at the crack of that small, hard ass. Run his tongue gently along the crack while Chakotay cried out beneath him. Nip each cheek; and grin at the mischief in dark eyes when Chakotay grabbed so he could exact revenge.

——

“Not until we get back on the ship.”

“But, Chakotay, we’ve got this oil.”

“And we have no idea what the hell is in it. I’m not putting anything inside you unless it’s been analyzed—” A kiss. “—and sterilized—” A kiss. “—and thoroughly vetted by the Doctor.” A kiss.

“Who’s going to want to know why two bridge officers want to put oil inside each other. Are _you_ going to explain it to him?”

A grin that melted into a kiss. “ _You’re_ the holoprogrammer: you can program him a lusty bandit who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer and satisfies him repeatedly. Let him figure it out for himself. Meanwhile—”

Long, luscious kiss that took breath away. “Meanwhile, I don’t think I need to program any bandit for _me_ ….”

“Fucking right you don’t.”

——

And sometime, oh, sometime deep in the night, Paris on his knees, gripping the headboard; Chakotay, behind him, spreading oil between his thighs, caressing, teasing; and then that thick cock sliding, branding his sensitive inner thighs. Chakotay’s hands held him steady; he couldn’t move: he could only whimper and groan and cry out as the hard cock moved, thrust with infinite slowness between his thighs; could only plead for the warm hand that fitted itself around his aching cock.

He rode it, rode it, to the rhythm of Chakotay’s thrusts.

A suck at his earlobe, that mouth busy at the side of his neck. Harsh gasps in his ear.

And heat spilling onto his belly and his thighs as he groaned and arched, pouring pleasure into the slick hand.

Shaking as they dropped onto the bed. Paris dragged at blankets, covered them. His mouth found Chakotay’s. Yes. Oh, shit— _yes_.

And then they were asleep.

——

Paris woke sometime later. The fire was dying. The wind was hard against the shutters. Chakotay sprawled against him, drooling slightly on the pillow. Heaven.

He eased out of bed, tucked the blanket around Chakotay. Fucking floor was cold. He found the chamberpot—at least he guessed that was what it was—and pissed into it. Tough target.

And the damned bathtub still had to be emptied—

A scratching at the door, and he snatched at a tunic. It was Chakotay’s, but Paris dragged it on as he went to the door. Aia. With food. And a bucket of steaming water. Must be morning.

“Thank you,” he said as she set down the tray.

But she’d spotted the bathtub and hustled over to empty it. Paris barely caught the glance she gave the rumpled bed where Chakotay sprawled contentedly. After she emptied the first bucket down the drain, she glanced again; she looked pleased.

Paris’s face got hot; he grabbed the other empty bucket and helped her. He hoped to god Chakotay didn’t do something to embarrass himself.

Chakotay woke halfway through the job.

“We have a visitor,” Paris warned.

Chakotay looked, flushed; then eased himself up, wrapped in the blanket. He cast a sheepish grin at Paris.

And Paris saw that Aia saw it.

Her hand faltered; she flinched. A slave looking straight at his master—

“It’s all right,” he whispered.

She froze; he could tell she was thinking about something. Then her hand automatically emptied the bucket. She looked at Chakotay, who smiled back, apparently at ease. She flushed and ducked her head.

“You look really stupid in that tunic,” Chakotay said cheerily to Paris.

“Well, it’s _yours_ ,” Paris shot back.

“Yeah, but on me it looks good.”

Aia smiled then; her hand moved to cover it. The small shoulders were still tense, as if waiting for a blow to fall on someone.

Paris grabbed the almost-empty tub, wrestled it over to the drain, dumped it, propped it to drip down the drain.

“I hope you brought a lot of food,” Chakotay said to Aia. “I could eat half of Mount Tilka.”

The smile again.

“ _I_ hope she brought some of those pastries,” Paris said. “The little ones with the cream filling.”

“I didn’t get any of those,” Chakotay said. “Somebody last night ate—”

Oh, for— Paris strode over, found one, and shoved it into Chakotay’s mouth. For Pete’s—

Chakotay shook with laughter, chewing on the little pastry, dark eyes laughing as he looked up at Paris. Paris felt his heart skip a beat. The fluttering started up inside him. His fingers brushed Chakotay’s face.

But Aia was there—still there—and—he could see out of the corner of his eye—staring at them in open-mouthed wonder. Well, staring at Chakotay: Paris wasn’t sure she could ever bring herself to actually look above the knees of someone she thought of as a master.

Shit—young girl with two men who’d clearly been fucking all night. The room must reek of sex. He wanted to crawl into a wormhole and pull it in after him.

But her eyes were shining as she left.

“I’m embarrassed that she saw us,” Paris said. _Chakotay, mouth swollen from kisses, skin marked by love_.

“She’s probably seen worse.” But Chakotay was blushing, tugging the blanket tighter.

Breakfast—shit, he was hungry—and as good a wash as he could get, sharing a bucket with Chakotay. Paris got what was left of the oil, rubbed it gently on the blue-purple bruises.

“That feels good. You’ve got good hands.” Chakotay grinned. “But, then, I noticed that last night.”

“We have to leave tomorrow.”

“No more money?”

“Just enough for one more night.”

Chakotay’s thumb slid gently across Paris’s mouth. His smile was soft. “Then we better make it a good one.”

A good day, too. The snow had stopped: the wind was whipping the clouds away from the suns.

They stayed in the room, away from the damned Verkau. Somehow, a lot of kissing remained to be done, and a lot of murmuring, and some really stupid jokes. They sat by the fire and kissed; they wrapped in the blanket on the bed and kissed.

No sex—well, except for when Chakotay said, “I’ve been sitting on the bridge, staring at that left ear for years now. I think that ear needs attention”; and he gave it attention, licking, nibbling, sucking; until Paris laughed and gasped and bucked against him; and Chakotay found Paris’s cock and stroked it, teased it, caressed it, murmuring in Paris’s ear about the beauty of his mouth, about that exquisite ear, about sky-blue eyes and a hard ass, and the grace of a back and deft hands on the conn; stroked and stroked and pleaded with Paris to come for me come hard yes come hard for me come for me yes— And Paris arched beneath him and helplessly obeyed.

A doze in Chakotay’s arms; a waking to kisses. Food Aia brought. The wind died, and Verka’s four moons climbed the skies.

A good night, gentle and sweet. The fluttering came back strong. This was more than—well, it was sex—it was _great_ sex—but it was more than just— It mattered to Paris when Chakotay gave himself over to the pleasure. It mattered that he winced when they did something that hurt. It mattered that he could fall asleep so contentedly in Paris’s arms.

Paris stroked the back of Chakotay’s neck as he slept. Shit—this shouldn’t be love.

Stubborn, stiff-necked hard ass that Paris could—shit. This shouldn’t be love.

Couldn’t be love. Because this was Chakotay.

He reminded himself of that over and over, before he fell asleep.

——

So, next morning, and—

“I should be carrying that pack.”

“Don’t be so damned stubborn, Commander.”

Chakotay grinned. “Just felt compelled to try, Lieutenant.”

Paris grinned back. “Understood, sir.”

Pack hoisted onto his shoulders; and there was Chakotay, right there in front of him. Square hands cradled his face; and then a kiss, long and hard and sweet.

Chakotay smiling at him when they came out of it. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

For—oh, who cared what for. “Any time, Commander.” Hoarse.

Then Chakotay dropped his gaze to Paris’s feet, and Paris saw the mobile face close up: the perfect slave, humble before his master.

Shit. He tasted bitterness.

Paris tossed their last six redstones to the inn keeper as they passed. He never wanted to see another fucking Verkau again; these bastards—

Toa was sweeping across the way, under the gaze of the handyman; he jumped up and down until Chakotay acknowledged him.

Aia held the gate into the street.

“Thank you,” Paris said automatically.

And her eyes lifted to his.

They were clear grey, in a face set and apprehensive; the hand on the gate shook; her slight body trembled.

He smiled warmth and approval as he passed. “Thank you,” he said again.

And saw delight warm her eyes before they went to Chakotay. Her face glowed at what she saw there.

And they were out into the street.

“Your effect on the average female never ceases to amaze me.” Chakotay’s voice was warm and contented.

“Hey— _you_ spent more time with her than _I_ did. And you’re the rebel.” He felt great. Prime Directive be damned.

“So now we ….”

“The springs feed the river; the river leads the way.” And there was a trail beside the river that never completely closed, warmed by the heated earth. Sitting with the damned merchants had given him that much information.

It felt good to be moving again, even with the fucking pack cutting into his shoulders. Clear day, joyous river steaming beside them. Trees cast deep shadows that eased the brightness of suns on snow.

They were the first along the path, breaking the calf-deep snow; and while it was good to have everything to themselves—to be away from watching Verkau—Paris was soon exhausted. So they alternated breaking the trail.

That snug ass in front of him …. The flutter of uncertainty came back. Because they weren’t in love; Chakotay couldn’t be in love with him. No one fell in love with Paris—not really, not forever—and certainly not his commanding officer. Not upright Chakotay, who could still circle back to despising him. So Paris couldn’t be in love—it would just—he would just be in love by himself, and that would kill him.

A stop for rest by the river, which had narrowed to a stream, where mosses overhanging the water grew green in the heated air; some long-legged crab thing moved below the surface of the water.

They spread one of the blankets between them and the snow, eased off Paris’s pack. Chakotay sat behind him, tucked the other blanket over Paris’s legs; and then slid his own hands under Paris’s coat and tunic, to rub his back.

His hands were warmer than Paris expected. “That feels good,” he said. It did—those hands that knew his back, knew how to coax the muscles into relaxing.

Eventually the hands finished, and Chakotay scooted up close behind him, pulled him back. Paris relaxed back into the solid body while Chakotay wrapped both arms around him. Paris tucked Chakotay’s hands under the blanket, held on.

They sat there for a minute or two on the snow-silent mountain. Paris, eyes closed, felt Chakotay’s heart beating against his back, Chakotay’s legs snug alongside his. Chakotay had dropped his head to Paris’s shoulder; the sound of his breathing in Paris’s ear was steady and sweet. It felt good to be locked together like this. Uncertainty fluttered in his stomach again.

“I … like this,” he murmured, voice so faint that he could ignore it if Chakotay did.

A hitch in Chakotay’s breathing. “So do I,” he whispered; and those words felt like the sun spreading warmth.

A moment to enjoy it. Paris laced his fingers through Chakotay’s.

“You’re not my first choice as bed partner,” Paris said.

Chakotay snorted. “Trust me; you’re not my first choice, either.”

Paris grinned. The flutter had vanished.

“But you feel like my last,” Chakotay said, his voice soft and hesitant.

Shit, oh, shit. “So do you.”

What a beautiful catch in Chakotay’s breathing. He rubbed his cold cheek against Paris’s.

They sat for a moment.

“My ass is getting cold,” Chakotay said. He sounded happy.

“You’ll have to build us a fire next time.”

“Just give me a couple hours’ warning. And a fully charged phaser.”

On and up through the pass, trudging through snow, watching the Verka equivalent of eagles glide above the river, diving to catch the Verka equivalent of fish. Small furry animals leapt from tree to tree, and chittered at them.

At noon they ate the rock bread and some fruit—cold.

On and up. The river narrowed to a rivulet, steaming: they could warm their hands over it. The suns started down in front of them.

It was nearing dusk when they came to a flat place beside a pool boiling with heat and with the power of the water surging up from below.

Someone was there ahead of them: a camp. Paris strode forward as Chakotay fell back. Back to master and slave. Paris steeled himself.

They were greeted by—

“Lieutenant. Commander.”

“ _Captain!_ ”

Oh, god, the Captain, looking gorgeous in Verkau disguise. She laughed; she strode up to them, hugged Paris. Hugged Chakotay. And, oh, damn, Harry Kim, grinning at him, pounding his shoulder. My god, they’d been found.

“We _thought_ you gentlemen would make a break for freedom.” That smoky voice, rich with fondness.

Oh, god, they’d been found; my god, they were safe. Chakotay was safe.

And a shuttle—they had a shuttle, tucked so neatly in a break in the trees that Paris tasted envy. Could he have done that? He wasn’t sure—but he was for certain going to try it on the holodeck. Damn sweet. “Who landed this?”

“Culhane.”

Who made a terrible-looking Verkau, not that Paris was biased, or anything.

Hot coffee by the fire, while they waited for dusk, when a leaving shuttle would be harder to spot. Chakotay’s face, animated and golden in the fire’s glow. Paris felt a weight as large as Verka lift off his shoulders.

And home to _Voyager_.

“I should have insisted that you be transported off the shuttle.” The corner of the Doctor’s lip lifted. “You’re _crawling_ with the local equivalent of fleas and lice.”

“ _Lice?_ ” Janeway sounded horrified. Her hand came up to scratch delicately at her head.

And, gee, as if things weren’t embarrassing enough—

“Socks. Filled with snow. Very cold.” Chakotay’s voice brooked no argument.

But the Doctor was always ready to give some. “ _Socks?_ ”

“Creative use of available materials. It’ll all be in my report.” Chakotay’s eyes warmed when they looked at Paris.

 _All?_ Shit.

Paris watched as the Doctor transformed Chakotay back into the Commander: removing implants, fading spots, regenerating. Wistfulness settled into his belly. It was stupid, but he missed the old Chakotay.

Janeway called Chakotay to the bridge as the Doctor started on Paris.

Home to _Voyager_. And the funny thing was, he couldn’t seem to get alone with Chakotay. Over the next few days, off duty, somebody always needed one or the other of them. And on duty—well, the bridge wasn’t exactly set up for romance.

And the first time Chakotay saw Paris after the Doctor was done, he stopped, blinked, looked lost for a minute. Then Paris saw the Commander’s professional demeanor slide onto his face, and they were back to being Lieutenant and Commander on the bridge.

Paris sat at the helm for a minute, mind blank with shock. _You feel like my last_. Yeah—sure. Whatever you say. He was an idiot for believing any of that.

Except— Taking a report from Paris’s shaking hand, Chakotay looked at him, and warmth came into his eyes. _You feel like my_ —

And a couple times that shift, Paris caught Chakotay staring at him from the Commander’s chair, wistfulness in the bright eyes. — _like my last_.

But Chakotay ate in the Captain’s quarters instead of in the mess; and his schedule just kept conflicting with Paris’s.

Then, finally, close to a week after they left Verkau, something blew in Jeffries Tube 13. B’Elanna was beside herself, giving them all a good education in Klingon cursing. For some subtle engineering reason, fixing the affected conduits would have to be correlated with adjusting the conduits in Jeffries Tube 47 and maybe 24 or 9—she wasn’t sure. So there were teams crawling through Jeffries Tubes all over the damn ship.

He and Chakotay were the team in 13, relaying new conduits.

And wasn’t _that_ just a lot of fun: the thin connectors, the tiny junctions. Springing out of place every time you breathed on them. Chakotay seemed jumpy. And all with B’Elanna spitting fire because she couldn’t personally accompany every team doing the work.

“Go check on the team in 47,” Chakotay finally said.

“But—”

“That’s an order, Lieutenant.”

Paris relaxed as he heard the cursing fade in the distance.

Eight connectors sprang free immediately.

“Shit,” Chakotay whispered.

They were both on their bellies over the opened grating, heads nearly bumping, eyes straining to focus. Quiet there, except for the hum of _Voyager_ , and the ragged thumping of Paris’s heart. Chakotay’s hands shook as he reconnected the fragile lines.

“I miss the spots,” Paris murmured; and Chakotay froze.

Then,

“I miss Marlon Brando.” His voice was warm.

Oh, god. Paris felt himself relax. Chakotay’s breath was soft on his cheek.

“Did you mean what you said?” Shit, he hoped his voice didn’t sound as needy as he felt.

“About you being—being the last? Yes.” The last whispered so low he had to strain to hear. “But we can’t—it can’t be the same as it was on Verka, Tom.”

Shit, he _knew_ that—he wasn’t a child. “No more public bathing?”

Chakotay chuckled, and three connectors sprang free. “ _Shit_.” Said happily. “But we can still soap each other. In private.”

My god, he could lie here fiddling with connectors for the next five years. Jeffries Tube 13 seemed bathed in a golden light.

“I’m sorry, Tom. You just look so—so _different_ from the way you did down there: it was disorienting.” Paris hazarded a look: Chakotay was blushing. “I’m afraid I gave my heart to a guy with spots and eyes that aren’t quite like yours. After the Doctor changed you back, I’m afraid I didn’t make the adjustment very easily.”

“I’m still that guy.”

“I know.” Chakotay was looking at him. “In all the ways that count, you are that guy.” A breath. “And I’m pretty sure I love that guy.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, faces a few centimeters apart.

“Good thing.” Paris’s voice sounded ragged. “Because that guy’s pretty sure he loves _you_.”

Chakotay dropped the connecting wand. “ _Shit!_ ”

Paris laughed.

“Oh, yes, that’s very funny,” Chakotay said. “The longer this takes, the longer before you and I can get off duty and get to know each other again.”

Well, _shit_.

“I can’t favor you,” Chakotay said, retrieving the wand and starting the whole damn process over. “I can’t be softer on you than I am on the rest of the crew.”

“I _know_ that. I can take it, Commander.”

An unhappy hitch in Chakotay’s breathing. “I know _you_ can take it; I’m just not sure _I_ can.”

“You can do it.” Paris’s blood seemed to be bubbling with joy. “ _We_ can work it out.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

And then Chakotay reached over and grabbed Paris’s hand and placed one of Paris’s fingers very firmly on the junction of a just-connected conduit. A quick twist; and Chakotay placed another of Paris’s fingers on the next junction. And a third. And a fourth; and—

Those warm fingers caressing his as they were carefully placed just so; Paris’s breath caught. That warm breath on his cheek; Chakotay’s mouth just millimeters from his own. The beauty of that fierce concentration on what they were doing. Paris’s heart skipped, beat, skipped.

One hand occupied. Chakotay moved to occupy the other. Warm pressure; soft mouth near his. He could hear the ragged beating of Chakotay’s heart, smell the musk rising from that warm body.

Chakotay’s breath touched his cheek as Chakotay leaned across to fumble for something behind Paris. Those hands not quite touching him. Not-quite-foreplay in Jeffries Tube 13. Paris started to laugh.

Chakotay grinned at him as he placed the binder around the newly connected conduits. “Whatever works, Lieutenant.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Commander.”

“Haven’t you finished _yet?_ ” That exasperated voice cleared the intimacy out of the air like a blast through a plasma injector.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Chakotay smiled at Paris. “Yes. I think we’ve taken care of everything. And now we’re officially off duty.”

She didn’t seem to be listening: she was too intent on making sure they hadn’t somehow damaged her precious conduits. Which was okay with Paris. Off duty. Oh, god, they were off duty, and—

And in the mess, eating something that bore little resemblance to food.

“Those chokka roots you brought on board are a real treat, Commander!” Neelix beamed with gastronomical joy.

“I _told_ you we should have just dumped them in the river,” Paris murmured.

“And pollute the water?”

But, oh god, they were off duty together, and he could eat anything the Delta Quadrant had to offer.

Paris managed to keep his hands off Chakotay until they were in his quarters.

“Engage level two privacy lock,” Chakotay gasped.

Which meant only a major alert message would get through. My god, they had a red alert now, and Paris would blow up the ship himself.

Chakotay laced the fingers of both hands through Paris’s, pressed him against the sealed door, looked into his eyes for a minute. My god, those poor fools on Verka, who would never get that look from the people who served them—and who sometimes loved them.

Chakotay let go, leaned in to trace Paris’s mouth with a shaking finger. Paused. Leaned in closer for Kiss 48: Commander Very Definitely Laying Claim to Lieutenant’s Heart and Body and Soul.

A dizzy moment after they broke the kiss. They looked at each other. And looked.

That predatory light in Chakotay’s eyes. Dimples at the edge of a roguish smile.

“And now, Lieutenant—where should we start?”

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, yes, the never-ending slash story. It was supposed to be finished in October, 1999. Then in November, 1999. Then it was supposed to be done in December, 1999. Or, was it mid-January, 2000? What was supposed to be a nice, short first-time story set in a slave culture (is there any Trek writer who doesn't write one of these?) turned into a nice, long first-time novella set in a slave culture. Well, there's just that much more room for the sex. (That naughty little scene that starts out "Ghost Light" somehow popped into this one, too—couldn't resist.) And, oh, my goodness, it turned out to be a hurt/comfort story! I love a good slave story just as much as anyone, but I wanted to do something different with it. All too often, the two characters fall instantly into their roles and really enjoy themselves. That doesn't happen here. After all, these two guys are the essence of independence: neither is guaranteed to enjoy being the slave that much—especially in this culture. I also wanted to play around with the strange and subtle relationship between master and slave—at least as it's played out in Western culture: strangely intimate, but with both on either side of a definite barrier. I can't say that I've said anything unique or startling on the subject, but I did enjoy it. And, yes, I thought my choice of who plays the slave might be fun. Dedicated to everybody who waited so patiently—and to those who just wanted me to get my act together, dammit!
> 
> I still feel kindly toward the Cha_Club for giving this story the only award I've ever earned.


End file.
